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father-time-and-baby-new-year · 3 years ago

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M-more armin vs eren drabbles please

WC: 3.2k

Title: Melted Candles

Warnings: possessive behavior, cheating, armin x reader x eren, obsession, unhealthy relationships. manipulator armin & toxic eren.

You’re fidgeting with the hem of your short dress that your loving boyfriend bought you, nursing a drink, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone.

Sitting on the olive couch alone as the musings of a party transpire, you eye the big and colorful banner sporting the words “Happy 20th Birthday Eren!”.

“It’s like Eren to be late to his own birthday party huh?”

A smooth, gentle voice breaks you out of your trance. You turn sideways to face Armin Arlert, a pretty boy with short-cropped blond hair and wide oceanic eyes. He’s all dressed up in a deep grey turtleneck, navy dress pants, and an expensive Omega watch on his wrist.

You must have looked frightened because he chuckles as he takes a seat next to you, a respectful distance away, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. Are you having fun?”

“Uh well it’s a surprise party, it’s not like Eren knows he’s supposed to be here.” You have an immediate desire to slap a hand over your mouth after the words spillover. You wince, not entirely in love with the fact that it was your first instinct to defend Eren.

If you had been more observant, you would have noticed the corners of his lips flick upwards in amusement. But Armin is observant enough for the both of you. He notes the color of embarrassment in your cheeks and continues the subject with ease.

“Ah, yeah. That’s right. Eren hates celebrating his birthday, but they're always a good excuse to get everyone together" He pauses before grinning so wide it doesn't look genuine, "-maybe this is more for us than him.”.

There’s an underlying tension in his words you can’t make heads and tails off. It reminds you of how truly little you knew of Eren's very own best friend.

You smile brightly, channeling all the optimism you could into changing the topic: “Everyone’s trying their best today! Sasha did all the catering and managed to leave the cake perfectly alone even though it’s her favorite flavor. She has the patience of a saint today.”

As if on cue, there’s a commotion in the background. Jean yells at Sasha, “Don’t finish all the lemon-pepper wings Potato Girl!”

Armin laughs and it's a pretty sound, a sound that reminds you of a bell chime. Unconsciously, he shifts closer to you, knees knocking into yours.

“Yeah, you’re right. Connie's even hosting it, and he let us decorate his man cave."

You look at the streamers and balloons, and Armin follows your eyes.

“You did a great job decorating.”

You blush, “It was honestly a team effort. Mikasa did way more, I promise.”

“So humble”, he teased. As he smooths his slacks, your eyes can’t help but fall on the shine of the silver band on his slender finger, an engagement ring.

“Annie couldn’t make it today?” There’s a flash of a grimace on his face but he schools his features right away.

“She doesn’t really like parties,” he laughs softly, “She’s like Eren in that way.”

“Oh,” you paused. He was clearly hiding something but it wasn’t in your place to pry. You didn’t know much about Annie. In fact, you were a little intimidated by her icy demeanor and arctic eyes. It amused you at first when you learned she was Armin’s partner.

Opposites must attract, because where Annie was the cold seeping into your bones, Armin was a furnace radiating warmth.

There wasn’t much more to say with the conversation heading to a peaceful silence, until his arms lightly touch yours, “I’m really glad you came.”

His fingertips graze the sleeve of your dress.

You flush, “Well, I wouldn’t be a very good girlfriend if I didn't come to his birthday party.”

The pretty blond clicks his tongue, “I suppose.” He inhales, thumbs swiping the rim of his glass, “You’re too good for him. Do you know that?”

To say you were surprised would be an understatement. You don’t have a response ready but Armin continues, “I love Eren of course. Been friends with him since we were children but-” Deep sigh, “I feel like I barely know him anymore. No one knows him anymore.”

In a small voice, you squeak “I do.” But the unsureness of your tone made your words seem like it was a question.

Armin smiles, one that’s filled with mirth.

Boldly, he squeezes your thigh, the flesh right below where your dress ends, “You deserve better.” His oceanic eyes seem darker under the dim lighting.

Why weren’t you moving away? Were you letting his hand itch closer to roaming the softness underneath silky fabric?

You swivel your head around, praying no one is seeing anything. Thankfully everyone was too swept up in their own conversations. As if to soothe you, his hands draw circles on the soft pliant skin, “Don’t worry, no one can see us.”

The ring glints harshly. Admittedly, Eren’s soft-spoken best friend is just a little attractive. You didn’t always think to see him this way, but Armin changed, and all the general anxiety he possessed matured into a quiet confidence.

He reminds you of Eren in that way. But still, you're at crossroads here. Is Armin making a move on you? Is he warning you? Should you even be here right n-

Your internal monologue is interrupted by Mikasa clapping her hands, and then putting a finger on her lips, “We’re going to turn off the lights, ok? They’ll be here in a few minutes. When Eren starts coming in, yell surprise.” Armin hand’s leave your legs, the warmth gone.

“Oy, oy, oy. Don’t we need a signal?” Connie asks, confusion apparent on his face.

“Jesus Connie, if you can’t even figure this out, what are we going to do with you?” quips Jean.

Mikasa shakes her head.

Sasha lightly punches her best friend, “It’s okay Coomer, just follow my lead.”

“How will that work since you’re stupider than me?” The hazel eyed boy asks, voice dripping in concern. “Eh?” Sasha replies with an equally concerned tone.

Mikasa pinches the bridge of her nose, “I’m going to turn the light off now.”

Eren would be here soon. You barely register Armin putting his arm around the couch, not around you per se, but the proximity was close enough to send your heart racing.

In the switch of a light, the room was engulfed in darkness and excited giggles that Mikasa promptly hushed. And then was just the sound of breathing. You could hear yours and you could hear Armin’s.

Softly, the blond uttered, “I’m going to do something I’ve always wanted to do.” You could feel featherlight fingers tilting your jaw, and capturing your pillowy lips.

The doorknob rattled. Soon after, light from the hallway trickled in. A still moment. As soon as the kiss started, it ended. A flash of light exploded before your eyes and a cacophony of people yelling Surprise! rang out.

At the center of attention was Eren Yeager, who...did not look surprised at all. His eyes were not even adjusting to the light the way yours was. A tall redhead accompanied him, someone who you vaguely recognize as Floch.

The birthday boy was clad in a white button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows and the top button was unfastened. His dress pants were slim-fitting and black.

The green-eyed boy’s face was devoid of expression. In comparison to his stoic nature, you thought your heart was going to explode.

Wryly Armin says, “Oh look, your boyfriend has arrived.” As if on cue, Eren’s eyes locked with yours.

At that moment, there were too many things to process.

Luckily, Eren was surrounded by a small crowd of his closest friends. You could hear Jean cackle, “Come on! You’re not even surprised.”

You turned your head to face the boy who took advantage of the darkness, a scarlet blush staining your face, “Why did you-?!”

He gazed at you with shining eyes like he had found clarity, not even bothering to feign guilt. With agility only he had, he took your palm in his, “I know you used to like me.”

Blood rushing in your ears, you tear your hands “What are you doing? Eren’s right there. Don’t touch me.” You hissed, scooting away for good measure.

“You didn’t deny what I said.” The blond pointed out calmly, “Yeager is no good for you. He keeps you in the dark about his life and he’s certainly not loyal..”

“I-I can’t deal with this. I never expected this from you Armin.” You shot up from the couch, trepidation filling your nerves, “Now if you excuse me, I’m going to greet my boyfriend.” You uttered the last word with as much hostility you could muster.

Mikasa had her arms wrapped around Eren. Which was fine. They’re best friends. They’ve known each other far longer than you knew him. He thinks of her as a sister.

He thinks of her as a sister.

You walked over, looming behind them. Most of the crowd had dispersed, with only Eren and the Ackerman girl lost in their own world.

What is wrong with you? You scold yourself. You didn’t usually think like this.

“[Y/N]”

Eren noticed you right away, and Mikasa turned around to face you.

“Sorry [y/n], didn’t mean to take so much of his time from you.” The dark-haired girl smiled apologetically.

You could feel guilt gnaw at you, how could you ever suspect her? She waved to Eren, and warmly thanked you, “You did so much of the planning. Thank you.” And before you could reply, she left.

That left you alone with the man himself. “Hi.” You said shyly. He smirked, “Hi babe. Long time no see huh.”

His viridian eyes slowly roamed your appearance, head to toe. You blushed under his stare as they paused longer than necessary on the dip of your neckline, and the expanse of legs not covered by the silk dress.

“So you did all this?” He teased, vaguely gesturing to the string lights, and hanging paper flowers.

He steps closer to you until he’s just a breath away. “Hardly. Just helped out wherever I could.” You whisper.

He hugs you, his tall frame enveloping yours. You feel so safe, pressed against his chest, as his arms compass the slight of your back.

His cologne is your favorite. Subtle, and intoxicating with thick notes of spice. You sniff something else, something overpoweringly distinct.

Still enclosed in his arms, you look up to him, “Did you drink?”

He takes a step back, still wrapping an arm to your waist, “I met up with Zeke. He offered me a drink.”

“Zeke?” You questioned, “You visited your brother?”

Eren was privy to sharing details about his life and you knew virtually next to nothing about Zeke, his half-brother he came recently in contact with.

He kisses the top of your head, and you can feel the loose strands that escaped his bun tickle your face, “It’s nothing to worry your pretty little head about.”

He keeps you in the dark about his life.

“You were cozying up with Armin on that couch, weren’t you?” His tone is light, containing a thinly veiled accusation.

You laugh it off, hoping he wouldn’t notice how tense you suddenly got, “No, no. We were just talking. I was sure I was going to kill myself out of boredom just waiting for you.”

Snuggling closer to him, you stand on your tippy-toes to kiss his jawline, trying to distract him from wavering thoughts.

“Oh?” He asked, “Armin wasn’t entertaining you well enough? Well, he does have a tendency to babble about nothing.”

As he talked, you had a feeling he wasn’t really looking at you, but rather peering straight behind you.

An uneasy feeling fills your lungs, “Um Eren, let’s head to the kitchen. I can fix you a plate. Niccolo did the catering so you know it’ll be really good-”

The tall boy waved your suggestion away, “Not hungry. In fact, why don’t we head over to my best friend? I haven’t talked to him in a while.” You didn't appreciate the mocking lilt in his tone.

Before you could dissuade him, he was already pulling your wrist so you could turn, hand placed on the small of your back, leading you somewhere you definitely did not want to go.

The charming blond was still situated on the couch but this time joined by a woman who was talking rather animatedly. You vaguely recognized her by her chin-length wavy ash-colored locks. Hitch.

“-Annie is so lucky! Jesus, I can’t believe you guys are engaged! And Marlowe still hasn’t worked up the nerve to-”

Eren coughed, asserting his presence. Two pairs of eyes flitted upwards. Hitch sighed dramatically, “Well if it isn’t the birthday boy. The big 2-0. You’re not a teen anymore Yeager. Think you’re ready for the adult world?”

Your boyfriend, who was never one for false pretenses and small talk, ignored her question entirely, “Hello Hitch. If you don’t mind, I would like to catch up with Armin here.”

The woman rolled her eyes, “Guess that’s my cue to leave.” As she stood up, she looked back and forth between the boys, noting the animosity that seemed to permeate the air as they burned holes into each other.

“Why are the vibes so tense? The energies you two are radiating...is reminiscent of a pissing contest”

Without really intending to, you let out a chuckle, attracting the attention of the three people around you.

Hitch’s eyes softened, “[Y/n], I haven’t seen you in a minute. Let’s go do shots with Mina and Hanna.”

Eren’s grip on you tightened, “She’s staying right here Hitch. Enjoy yourself though”

“Funny, I don’t recall asking you. Your girlfriend can’t speak for herself?”

“Uhm, thanks for the offer Hitch but no thank you, I’m not really in the mood to drink right now.” You chuckle nervously, flashing a big enough smile that will ascertain that everything is okay.

Hitch shrugs, “Suit yourself”, and proceeds to walk away.

“Well, I suppose I have to thank you for driving her away. She’s quite...talkative.” Armin breaks the silence. He addresses you both but his eyes are trained on you, “Back already [y/n]?” An easy smile spreads across his face.

You don't look at Eren’s face to gauge his reaction, but you notice how the hand around your waist squeezes almost painfully. The boys stand up to shake hands. Armin gestures for the two of you to sit but the dark-haired boy waves it away, “We prefer to stand.”

The blond gazes between the two of you questioningly but seemingly accept Eren’s response, “Okay then. Guess I’ll stand too.”

“Where’s Annie? Trouble brewing in paradise?”

Armin’s smile hardens, “Don’t know how you’d assume that. She’s just not here.”

Unease pinpricks at you. You could feel trepidation in the air.

“What a shame. Doesn’t Annie like me?” Eren taunts before delivering a line you didn’t expect, “I recall a time where she liked me much more than you actually.”

Surprise is an understatement for how you feel. You didn’t even want to register the implication of his statement. Did Eren and Annie have a past? You lightly touch Eren’s arm in a hint of a warning, “Eren-”

The blond shakes his head, “You’re really something else, you know? Talking about another woman so brazenly in front of your girlfriend? Are you projecting your insecurity onto me since you know” he tilts his head in your direction, “[y/n] liked me first?”

You fluster immediately, jaw-dropping slightly. It was true. You did have a rather big crush on the intelligent blond boy who sat next to you in a class that bored you to sleep. But there was nothing between you two beyond a handful of platonic study dates from when you were freshmen!

Too many moving variables. He was dating Annie and not being the homewrecker type, tried to squash the interest you had. Besides, you were planning to drop that class anyways, and in a twist of fate, it was Armin who had inadvertently introduced you to Eren.

Also, how did that damn Arlert know and why was he bringing it up today of all days?!

Your boyfriend sneers, “Does that really matter when she’s with me? When she’s dating me. And. Not. You.” He punctures the last words out.

“Uhm, I’m right here-” You finally find your voice, “And I’m not really comfortable with being discussed like this.”

Armin’s eyes find yours, “Of course. Sorry [Y/n]. It’s super disrespectful of me-”

Eren cuts in with words heavier than bullets, “Shut the fuck up. Always desperate to play the white knight in shining armor aren’t you? Your duplicity makes me sick.”

As if sensing an oncoming attack, Eren pivots away from you, creating some distance.

Armin closes the gap between himself and the dark-haired boy and bunches Eren’s collar in his fist, “You don’t know how to treat people, you know that? So full of yourself that you think basic decency has an ulterior motive.”

Eren’s eyes dance with mirth, “There’s always an ulterior motive with you, isn’t there though?”. He forcefully shoves his friend, sending Armin stumbling a few steps backward, “You really like pretending you’re one of the good guys when your hands are blood-stained like the rest of us.

You can hear the blood rushing in your ear and you attempt to get in the middle of the impending conflict but Eren grabs your arm with a painful force. He growls,“Step back”. You obey.

“Don’t touch her touch like that.” Armin snarls.

“She’s my fucking girlfriend. I’ll touch her however I want. By the way, just because your little fiance is giving you a hard time doesn’t give you the right to leer at what’s mine.”

At this point you realize you come to your senses, and you leave the area quickly to get help. You scan the area around looking for Mikasa. She’s reliable and always knows what to do. You try to calm your panicked heart.

Gaining speed, you nearly fall by running into someone in the long hallway. Thankfully, the good samaritan is able to catch you in time, holding your shoulders in a firm but comforting grip.

You look up, eager to thank the man who caught you. Mullet. Tall. Slight scruff at the chin. You recognize him right away.

“Woah y/n, what are you running for?” He asks in amusement but one look at your teary eyes has him instantly concerned, “Hey, hey. Are you okay?”

“I-uh,” You’re blubbering, “Armin and Eren are acting kinda strange--I think Mikasa should calm them down.”

Jean’s eyebrows are furrowed, “Strange how? She stepped out so she’s not here right now.” You bite your lips, wondering how you were going to explain the situation.

Jean grabs your shoulder, “Hey, don’t worry. I’ll settle this. Can you take me to them?”

You nod, supremely grateful to have Jean in your corner. As you guys take a turn to the living room, you hear the excruciating sound of glass breaking. “Shit!” Jean curses.

In the middle of the living room stood Eren and Armin like centerpieces, beating the ever-living shit out of each other. You couldn’t see much beyond the fact Armin was throwing punches left and right, landing some but Eren was able to dodge most.

As you move to run forward, Jean grabs you, “No. Stop. There’s glass everywhere. You’re going to get hurt.”

You’re incredulous, “I can’t just let them hurt each other!”

Jean merely looks at you with a look of pity,

#armin arlert fanfic #armin arlet x you #eren yeager x reader #eren yeager x you #eren jeager x reader #armin and eren fight over you #attack on titan headcanons #attack on titan fanfiction #tw manipulation #tw gaslighting #tw fighting #manipulator armin

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undermattsun-archive · 4 years ago

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tell me

(skate rat) miyas x fem!reader | w.c 1.6k

a/n: ok look i’m no brother fucker on main, but the lewding potential post-show me was too delicious, and if i’m not an opportunistic whore... so here it is the pt 2 y’all keep screaming about that i actually started writing no more than two hrs after posting show me bc i have no self control

another big thankies to @sugardaddykenma for giving this a read over big fat wet besitos for u

18+ university | please read ALL warnings

warnings: INCEST full on (i’m sorry god), dubcon/noncon elements, fingering, overstimulation, dumbification (lowkey), degradation, manipulation, a dash of gaslighting, a bit of humiliation, virginity loss (mentioned), crybaby!reader, little bit of mind break, reader is tired + slurs words a bit

just...them taking advantage of dumb reader

read show me first! (not necessary but appreciated + it would make more sense to do so) NOW with the third part make me !!

One hour, twenty-six minutes and who knows how many seconds have gone by since your brothers have decided to go into an entire good cop, bad cop tirade.

Their words barely making a dent in your mind as a soreness settles in your bones, the added discomfort of a mixture of sweat, saliva and cum drying on your skin with the debauched feeling of Kita’s cum dripping from your sore cunt keeping your mind thoroughly distracted.

“You’re never gonna see him again.” Atsumu-nii barks out.

“It’s better that way.” Osamu-nii adds gently.

“In fact he’s dead next time we see him.”

“Yeah, very much dead.”

“We told him to stay away from you, fuck.” Atsumu flops down beside you, Osamu follows sitting on your other side.

“It’s not that big of a deal.” You mumble, regretting your words the second you see the look in your brothers’ eyes.

“Not that big a deal?” Atsumu’s voice is no more than a low growl as he rises, eyes narrowing at the statement. “Kita’s a fucking bastard and you just let him between your legs like it was nothing. Are you stupid?”

Your eyes widen at the accusation as you scoot away from him, drawing your knees to your chest, letting your eyes fall to the rumpled blankets surrounding you.

“You let him cum inside you?” A gasp falls from your lips, embarrassment scorches through you as you realize the way your bare cunt is exposed by the way you’re sitting. You immediately shoot back, slamming into Osamu as you squeeze your legs shut, dread filling your lungs as Atsumu crawls forward.

“Our little sister really is dumb. Is that what you’ve been up to while you’re away?” He’s always been faster than you, proven by how his fingers are already around your wrist, yanking you towards him. You know that struggling is a moot point, he’s bigger and faster and so much stronger. But you can’t help but wiggle around, barely able to make him budge even a centimeter.

“No! That was my first...” you bite your tongue as Atsumu crosses his legs and seats you in his lap, your back pressed against his chest as he snakes an arm around your waist. He rests his chin atop your head, a thoughtful hum vibrating in his chest against you.

“Hear that Samu?” Atsumu squeezes you tightly as your eyes frantically dart around Osamu’s features, silently begging for him to free you from this situation.

“Yeah Tsumu, she really gave up her virginity to Kita.”

“Like an idiot.” They muse in unison.

“I- but-”

“But nothing. Now your nii-chan’s need to clean you up. Stupid little girl.” He mutters against your hair, smoothing his hands over your thighs, spreading them apart more and more. Stretching them until they’re caught by his knees, rendering you helplessly exposed.

“Umm.” Your legs twitch, the position all too embarrassing, the powerlessness of it parallel to when you were being held by Kita. Taboo, the position screams.

“It’s okay, dumb girls like you make mistakes all the time,” Osamu smiles gently, shifting over to lift the hem of your shirt, handing it to Atsumu keeping it pinned just above your belly button, “that’s why you have us.”

Confusion swirls as you watch your older brother's fingers disappear into his mouth, eyes watching as his tongue flicks over the digits, retracting them slowly.

“Ah! Wait!” You yelp out as he pushes his index and middle fingers past your puffy hole, a stinging pleasure making the taut muscles of your thighs twitch. Atsumu lets out another low laugh, steadying your legs, forcing you to keep still as Osamu continues to prod further. The blunt ends of his fingers pressing and dragging against the sore gummy walls.

“Too much, too much.” You gasp as Osamu’s fingers dig further into your cunt, shaking as you feel the tips of fingers brush against your cervix. Fat tears begin to roll down your face as you press harder back into Atsumu, as if you could find escape in the rigid planes of his body.

His fingers continue to twist and scour, the sensation is all too overwhelming, making your throat tighten as you make futile attempts at clamping your legs shut, only making Atsumu snicker above you. You watch with panting breaths as Osamu finally draws out his fingers, covered in the milky white slick, evidence of the sins you committed just a few hours before.

“What a sloppy cunt, you really let him make a whore of you huh?” Atsumu bites, the words cut into you, the betrayal in his voice making your throat tighten further. You can only manage to choke out a broken sob of a denial as Osamu brings his fingers against your lips.

“Say ‘ah’.” You shake your head frantically, face quickly being caught in Osamu’s other hand.

“Don’t be difficult, we’re helping you.” Disappointment, the disappointment crumbles what little fighting spirit you had in the first place, you can’t stop the tears from falling as you let Osamu slip slicked fingers into your mouth. Lazily you swirl your tongue around them, exhaustion starting to sweep over you.

“All good?” Atsumu asks as Osamu pulls his digits from your mouth, smiling proudly at you.

“Let me make sure.” He lowers himself more onto the bed, bringing him face to face to your dripping cunny, he plants a hand against the taut muscle of your thigh, staring so intently at your twitching hole. “So fuckin messy.” It’s the closest to warning you get as he pushes his fingers back in, the yelp you let out sounding pitiful even to you.

“We shouldn’t, d-do this.” You grip at Osamu’s arm, but it’s as if each tug you make has no effect. There isn’t a purpose to his motions, his fingers pumping in and out of you with reckless abandon, the wet, lewd sounds filling the room.

“‘M just helping you.” Osamu breathes out, hot breath fanning over your sensitive cunt. With each push of his fingers you feel as though your whole body has been thrown under an unwavering waterfall, every stroke of his fingers feeling like the ruthless waters beating down on you.

“Yeah, you’re the idiot who went and fucked Kita Shinsuke of all people.” Atsumu chides, running a hand across your belly, lips tickling the shell of your ear. He pulls one of your hands off of Osamu, intertwining your fingers, securing your hand against your heaving chest.

“M’Not an idiot.” Your panting whines swirling with the soft wet clicking made by his digits in your cunt punctuating your shame, your words weakly slurred together. “Samu-nii n-n’more.”

“Hm? What was that?” He teases his ring finger against your entrance, viciously scissoring his index and middle, making your body stiffen, the pain of overstimulation surging violently chased with flecks of pleasure.

“Pretty sure she said more Samu.” Atsumu goads, slipping his other hand underneath your shirt to massage your tender breasts, the endless waves of exhaustion leaving you unable to deny yourself melting in his hold.

“More it is.” Without the slightest of stutters in his motions he stuffs in his ring finger, forcing your back to arch at the sting, the throbbing of your cunny is gut wrenching but the delicious curl of Osamu’s fingers is undeniable.

“Shlow down.” Your tongue feels thick in your mouth, head lolling back, knocking into Atsumu’s chin as you stare down with blurry vision at Osamu’s fingers disappearing into your wet heat.

“Think our little dummy means speed up, right sis? You wouldn’t want Samu to miss any leftover cum from your little slut stunt.”

“I-I don’t?” You mumble, trying to crane your head to meet Atsumu’s gaze, the disconnect of his words is disorienting as you continue to slip into worn out haze.

“Of course not, that’s what we’ve been telling you.” He releases your hand in favor of sliding his hand up to grip at your jaw, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek. “Hey Samu I think you can fit a fourth.”

“Yeah, me too.” Atsumu presses your head against his, leaving the two of you cheek to cheek as your eyes widen at the sight of your brother’s pinky swiping besides your entrance.

“Won’t fit.”

“It will.” Osamu looks up at you, the familiar lazy half smile almost comforting as he begins to work his fourth finger into your thoroughly abused cunt. A jolt of biting pain mottled with bliss erupts through you. The feeling of being utterly stuffed, pushed past whatever limits you had, leaving you unable to even focus your eyes or make sense of whatever Atsumu whispers against you.

The entirety of your body feels like an exposed nerve, as if you’ve been left out in the sun too long, simultaneously hyper aware and numb of all the little touches and strokes across your flesh. You can feel Osamu steadily pick up the pace with each thrust of his fingers, each stroke as if he’s trying to dig deeper, as if he’s trying to make your cunny memorize the shape of each finger.

“Tsu-tsumu-niii, I thiiink…” Whatever comment you had is lost in your throat, the tiniest caress of Osamu’s thumb against your clit has your mind going blank, the entirety of your body coiling tightly, a mangled whine preempting the feeling of yourself gushing around Osamu’s fingers. Your body spasms, held tightly in Atsumu’s arms as you squeal out at Osamu unwilling to relent his movements, continuing to piston his fingers with reckless abandon.

“Enough, Ssamu enough.” Your vision goes spotty, watching with jagged breaths as he gradually withdraws. You spiral into unconsciousness one last shiver wracking through you as you watch him bring his fingers up to his lips, licking a stripe up his coated fingers. A dastardly grin the last thing you see as you black out.

#this work contains INCEST + NONCON elements #DO NOT READ IF U R NOT COMFORTABLE WITH THIS #save us both the time and effort and block me if you hate this content #if u want it to a mutual block lemme know #now that i have posted this i'm actually gonna go pray the rosary #here's ur part 2 whores #miki writes #tw noncon #tw incest #tw dubcon #tw virginity #tw degradation #tw humiliation #tw gaslighting #tw manipulation #tw dumbification #tw mindbreak #tw overstimulation

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whimsywispsblog · 4 years ago

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RED

A/N: ANGST! ANGSTTTT!

TW: Blood, gore, graphical descriptions of corpses, panic attacks

Chapter 2- Tears

Working with Hudson wasn't as bad as Rei thought it would be. Granted, he's one hell of a moody bastard, but atleast he let her have her peace instead of glaring at her with those predator eyes like Adler's.

"Mr Hudson! Who is Bell?" Hudson looked at Rei and glanced down at the file she was holding, a little spark of discomfort kindled in his eyes.

"He was one of Perseus' agents who we managed to brainwash using the MK-Ultra. He was the most succ-"

"Mk-Ultra?! I thought that was a myth!" Hudson rolled his eyes, irritated at the girl's sudden interruption. She muttered a small 'sorry', biting her lower lip. Gah, I'm an idiot. Control yourself, dammit.

"What happened to him?"

"He had to be killed." Rei's eyebrows knitted in confusion. Her face tilted slightly, in curiosity. Hudson sighed softly and sat up straight, readying himself to indulge in her curiosity.

"He was a loose end. He could turn his back anytime, we never know." Rei looked back at her file. It had a bloody handprint on it. She ran her hand over the handprint. "Who killed him?"

"His handler, Adler." Rei inhaled sharply. So, he is putting my life in the hands of a man who can kill a person mercilessly. Lovely. Rei started fidgeting with her necklace again- too many questions swirled in her mind. Can I trust Adler? What if he thinks of me as a loose end too? Is that why Hudson wanted him with me? He should never know about my fath-

"What's on your mind?" Hudson stared into her dark chocolate brown eyes. He could see several questions sprouting from her head.

"It's just...He doesn't seem like the kind of guy I would like to work with. He just feels too...too closed off. I don't know if I can trust him." Hudson's lips curled into a small smile. He expected this to happen. "Rei. If you're worried about Adler turning his back on you, remember this: Adler is responsible for you during the mission, after that you're under my wing. You won't be working with him as much as you will with me." Rei gave a small wry smile. I am definitely not the first person Hudson has convinced about Adler's trustworthiness and goodwill.

"Anyway, speaking of Adler, he will come in tomorrow. He will brief you more on Bell if you're interested." Her face dropped into a sullen expression. For one whole week, much to her happiness, the scary-looking Mr Shades never crossed paths with her. It was as if he disappeared into thin air. Where he was, what he was doing, she did not care for it- she just didn't want to meet him and she prayed to every single God to make it happen. For once, the Gods did listen to my prayers!

"And a word of advice: Try not to get into his bad books," Chewing her thumbnail unconsciously, Rei bombarded her head with several scenarios. Wait...he advised me. Does that mean- Oh God, I am already a red flag to him. Fuck.

"Okay. Thank you, Mr Hudson." Back to the theatrics again, huh.

"Also, your flight to West Berlin has been scheduled for tomorrow, 3 am. Don't miss it."

3am?! Goddamit Hudson! Rei dramatically banged her head against the table, earning a small chuckle from the older man.

"Is that all we have on her? Nothing more?" Adler asked Sims.

"Nope. That's all we have. She looks pretty innocent to me, Doc. I wouldn't worry about her if I were you." Adler kept skimming through Rei's file for the nth time in the week. He could find nothing about the girl, except whatever Hudson had told him.

"That's exactly what bothers me. It's always the innocent ones." Sims raised an eyebrow at Adler. He wasn't looking at him, he was looking elsewhere. Following his line of sight, Sims finally understood who he was staring at, or more like, glaring at. Rei Ivanov. When he looked closer, it wasn't Rei who was in his line of sight. It was the object that she held onto which Adler threw his fierce glare at.

She was busy playing with her pendant again and in her hands, she held the brown file with the bloody handprint. Bell's file. Stuffing the file into a little owl-shaped bag, the girl left Langely. Adler's eyes trailed after Rei for a bit, till she was out of the man's sight. Sighing deeply he walked back to the office.

"Ah should have got my favourite winter coat." The girl wriggled in her sweater dress uncomfortably.

Back in her home, she immediately rushed towards the kitchen for a cup of hot cocoa. It was a simple yet sophisticated home. Black sofas with pink rugs and fairy lights adorned on the walls. A few pictures of some of the places she had been to during her time as a War Correspondent was neatly arranged on top of the small fireplace that she lit up whenever she felt lonely. Today was one of those days.

Curling on one of the sofas with her favourite cat plushie in one hand and hot cocoa in the other, Rei stared at the fireplace, the fire blazing in its pristine orange. She slowly leaned back, closing her eyes lightly. A lone tear-drop fell off her eye as she slowly started to walk down the memory lane.

Fire.

Screaming.

Fire.

A smell of burnt flesh filled the air. The skin of the burnt victims almost melted away, bones painted with blood-red sticking out of the corpses. Little moths sat on top of the corpses, devouring the flesh. Limbs hanging from a tree or a broken pole, some corpses with a body part missing, others have their intestines splattered out. Suddenly, two bloodied hands engulfed her. Turning around, she saw a man without half a face- his inners sticking out.

Rei gasped for breath as she opened her eyes. She fell off her sofa, her coca spilt on her expensive rug. She couldn't breathe- there was a pain in her chest. Clenching her chest, Rei tried to crawl towards the phone, but she couldn't move. She cried and cried- her tears flowed endlessly from her big doe-like eyes.

"Stop crying. Stop crying." She whispered to herself, slowly focusing on her breathing- her therapist's advice. That did the trick. It took her a good 15 minutes to recover from her sudden breakdown- one she had every night. She looked up at the clock. It was 4 hours to 3 am.

"I should pack, then leave. The maid can clean my rug." She muttered to herself slowly, trying to stand up with the help of the handle of her sofa.

"In short, the flight was shit, I am sleepy and I am starving," Hudson chuckled at Rei's extremely irritates answer. He had agreed to pick up Rei, thankfully, and brought her some food too, a sub with a nice cup of hot cocoa.

"How did you know I love cocoa?" Hudson smirked lightly, his eyes glued to the road.

"I am an agent for a reason, Rei." Rei rolled her eyes at the very vague reply. She continued munching on her sub, hungrily and trying to not make a mess in his car, which was extremely difficult for the poor girl.

After a very boring and painful two hours of travel, including pestering Hudson every five minutes with the question 'Are we there yet?'; the duo finally arrived at the safehouse. It was a big rusty monstrous building. It did have an eerie aura to it. Rei looked around the safehouse- it was just a green barren land.

"Come on in Rei, I want you to meet someone." A wave of social anxiety splashed over Rei as she awkwardly walked into the safehouse. Her nails dug deep into the soft flesh of her thumb and her teeth bit into her inner lips, drawing a little blood from the force.

"This is Helen Park, from MI6. She will be the one who will help you around with cross-referencing any intel we get." MI6! She's British, then? Must be an old acquaintance of the team.

Helen was a beautiful woman. She had a certain light charisma that radiated from her- one that was hard not to ignore. She did seem like a person one would immediately open their hearts out to- maybe because of her friendly and warm aura that was strikingly different from Hudson's and Adler's cold aura. Especially Adler's dark and unfriendly one. Rei shuddered at the thought of her first meeting with Adler lightly, but lucky for her, both the agents never noticed it.

Putting on her famous charming smile, Rei politely introduced herself to her, overemphasising her innocent exterior. Atleast my innocent face should keep me out of trouble. She hoped. And just as she hoped, Park did take in her innocent act. Good job Rei!

"Alright time for work," Hudson shouted out to the women. While Hudson was busy talking to Park about some meeting that should happen later, the evidence board had a picture of an old man in black and white, with a few red strings connecting him to other pictures that caught Rei's eye. Perseus.

"Rei, go to that room, there are a few files there. Try to piece together whatever you can. Park, you know what to do." Rei nodded, walking towards the room that Hudson had pointed out to.

It was a dark and dusty room. Cold too. Rei placed her bag on her table and fished through it. She pulled out a few papers that she had kept in her bag. They were some information about the operational Gulags and another tattered picture.

Thank you Rebecca for pulling those strings.

Rebecca, a close friend of Rei's was one woman who could pull several strings to get any amount of information. She knew quite a lot of people in the CIA- a few of them high up the food chain. She got Rei whatever she could get her hands on about the Gulags. And a small photograph of someone by the name Victor Kuzmin.

Taking the files Hudson had asked her to study, Rei kept them in front, the papers of the Gulag and Victor on her lap. "Okay! Time to start my reading on these. Maybe after my homework, I can casually pick a conversation with Hudson about the Gulag. No, maybe not Hudson." Rei kept trying to break her head over who to approach for the info about any recent survivors from the Gulag, but then there would be a high chance that she would be suspected, not to mention, her last name itself would have definitely raised a lot of eyebrows. Especially Adler's antennas, no doubt.

"Interesting, you're into Gulags." That dark gravelly voice. Adler. How the fuck did I not see him come in! Now he's definitely going to doubt me.

"Nice necklace," He exhaled his smoke, closing the door behind him, walking towards the young girl. The girl prayed and invoked all the Gods- old and new-to help her get out of the situation alive and unharmed.

"Ah yes. They pluck on my imagination- the whole setting of it. Quite poetic too- darkly poetic if someone were to write about, you know, a survivor who's been rotting in there for years, now out of the hellhole ready to-" Rei stopped herself immediately. I should have just stopped with poetic. Now he definitely thinks I'm looking for someone and from the looks of it, he might as well think I'm one of them.

"Mhmm. True." He walked closer to Rei, standing right next to her.

"A few days back a certain someone, a sort of a ghost from my past who I believe was rotting in the Gulag, escaped from there. Intel has it that he's one of Perseus'." He now said, looking at the tattered picture of Victor Kuzmin below the papers of the Gulag. Ah. So it was him who escaped.

Rei kept her expressionless facade on. On the inside, she was breaking and churning in fear and panic. She put on her innocent smile with big eyes. "Ah. How unfortunate. I hope you get him soon." Adler kept his steady glare at the girl, a scowl now forming. Sensing the tension, Rei's first instinct was to leave before she accidentally slipped something else, which will be interpreted as further something else by Adler.

"Uhm. It is late. I should get back to my apartment." She tried to slip away from Adler, but he caught her arm, his fingers deeply dug in her skin. The girl slightly winced in pain, looking up at the older man. "Hudson trusts you, but I don't. If I catch you stepping out of the line again, I will kill you."

The girl now put on her bitter face. When the hell did I step out of the line, asshole?! She couldn't stand his arrogance anymore. "And maybe you should try and keep your nose off my life." Never in a million years did she realise that she would regret the words that fell of her mouth. Fool! He's a fucking spy!

"You forget who I am Ivanov. I run the show here." His eyes glanced at the red necklace. Grabbing the pendant to his eye level, he looked back at her. "I won't be surprised if you turn out to be one of them. Advice: If you are, don't let me catch you."

Rei scoffed at the man. "And what, you're little threat is supposed to make my knees go all wobbly and make my lips quiver in fear?"

"They are already wobbly, Ivanov." This man's ego...

"Wobbly out of anger! And I would like to be called Rei if you please!" The girl darkly growled at him, earning a sharper glare from the man.

"Fucking brat," Adler muttered, letting the girl go. Once he was gone, she immediately rushed to the washroom nearby, locking it from the inside. Uncontrolled tears rolled down her eyes. Never had she been this intimidated by anyone in her life. And he is the guy I am supposed to work with. Thanks, Hudson.

Outside the safehouse, Adler lit up another cigarette.

"Weaver, I need you to look upon someone for me. Her name's Rei Ivanov. Also, see if you can find someone in the Gulag by the name 'Ivanov'."

"Alright. I will see what I can get, Adler." Adler ended his call. Looking back up at the skies, he tried to mentally chart a connection between Rei and Stitch, but he could make none.

"Who is she and who exactly is she searching for?" Adler ran a hand over his chin, deep in thought.

#russell adler #russell adler x oc #cod black ops cold war #beautiful photos

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inkedtae · 5 years ago

Text

winter letter ⇾ knj, jjk.[A]

𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃�� ⇾ jungkook x reader (f.), namjoon x reader (f.)

𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 ⇾ angst, pg

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 ⇾ three months before your wedding, you get fragments of a letter from an old friend.

��𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉 ⇾ 2.1k

𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 ⇾ a lil swearing

𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇'𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 ⇾ Order up! Give it a good stir; enjoy!

⤑ le playlist

◖collab. for @bangtan-dreamland’s drinks and drabbles event. find original request here.◗

Crystal snow coats the window pane as it trickles down from gloomy clouds. You wake to find once bare branches and dry roads, heavy and wet with layers of snow. The untreated snow trails fill you with emptiness as the world feels vacant, uninhabited. You’ve been up for hours, watching the sunrise while teacup after teacup nurses your unruly heart. With every inhale and exhale, your lungs only feel further restricted by your rib cage. Bones under flesh, mind over heart, all you feel is pain.

The six fragments of a letter rest before you on the kitchen table. You drag your gaze away from the frost framed window and read through the paragraphs. You’ve read each horizontally ripped piece a dozen times, trying to fully process the beautifully written sentences. The sender remains anonymous, but you have a good guess on who might be the voice behind this confession. You know his handwriting, know it well enough to be able to deny the obvious possibility that, after two years of silence, the letter carries more than just simple ‘how are you doings.’ With only one more piece left, confirming his identity, you have already gathered that it’s a love letter.

The first little piece of the letter is dated the day you met Jungkook two years ago. The suspected writer seems to have written it prior to realizing that you’ve already met someone. He seems to be more concerned with the fact that too much time has passed to stay within an arm’s length reach of each other, rather than the presence of someone else in your heart. Rereading the final sentence, you can’t deny hearing your heart whisper his name.

I love you; I’ve loved you the moment you spilled blueberry yogurt on my white sweater and tried to convince me a bird knocked you over and made you do it.

You can’t believe he still remembers that. It’s not like you have forgotten it, but you just didn’t think he’d remember that day. It wasn’t exactly the first time you’ve met or even saw each other. It was just the first moment the two of you ever exchanged some words.

It was about three months into your first year of university. Late for your philosophers of literature class, you had rushed through the courtyard with your breakfast, a thing of blueberry yogurt, in your hands. Instead of waiting to get into class to enjoy your yogurt, you decided to open it on your way there. This wouldn’t have been such an issue if you didn’t have two books tucked under your arm and your bag falling off your shoulder. Struggling to peel off the lid while juggling so much, you pulled too hard on the flap and spilled the purple tinted yogurt all over someone’s sweater as you round the corner.

“Shit,” he hissed as he held the hem of his sweater.

You gasped, bringing a hand to your lips. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

A first glance, you didn’t really recognize him. But, as you continued to look between him and the new yogurt stain on his sweater, you started to realize who he was. He was in a couple of your classes, always happening to seat a row in front of you. His wardrobe always mirrored that of a twentieth century poet, but his answers were never that dated. His insights drove the lecture and most times you wondered why he wasn’t the one teaching the class since what he had to say seemed more reasonable and accurate than whatever the professor brought to the table.

“It-”

“I didn’t mean to do that, I swear! It just… um… it was a bird. Yeah! This stupid bird knocked over my hand,” you lied, avoiding his gaze as you spun this grand tale of how bird are just flying rats and cannot be trusted. “But, you know what? It happened and I’m gonna fix it. I’ll clean it right now, okay? Just stay still,” you said as you dug into your bag for a tissue. You fumbled with your books under your arm and the half empty yogurt container in your hand as you rummaged your free hand around in your bag.

“I can just-”

“Hold these!” You ordered, shoving your books into his hands. You placed the yogurt container on top of the books then turned back to your bag. “Don’t let the books touch the yogurt,” you muttered as you pulled out more books and shoved them in his hands to hold.

He sighed, sarcastically replying, “no, because that would just be a disaster.”

You didn't know he was being sarcastic then. You remember that all you could think in that moment was that you had to clean his cable-knit sweater. It looked so pretty and, from what you saw of his torso, it fit him all too well. It would’ve been a shame to see it ruined.

Finally finding a tiny pack of tissues, you pulled it out and set your bag down. You tried your best to wipe it all off, but all you ended up doing was rub the yogurt into his sweater, further ruining the fabric. When you ran out of tissues, you finally took a step back to examine your process. Immediately, you noticed that you managed to spread the stain rather than fix it.

You curled your lips in and hesitantly nodded. “Looks brand new,” you lied before tossing the tissues in the garbage beside you. Meeting his unimpressed eyes, you flashed him a nervous smile and hoped you looked sorry enough to let this all slide.

“So let me get this straight,” he started. “Some bird happened to see you opening a pack of yogurt and decided to specifically attack you. It knocked over your hand just as you were opening it and made you spill it all over me?”

The unamused tone of his voice gave you goosebumps. You shifted your weight from foot to foot and nervously asked, “any that’s hard to believe because…?”

His gaze flickered to a glare. You flashed him that anxious smile once more as he began handing your books back. He took the yogurt pack and tipped it up to you. “I’m taking this as compensation.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” you sighed. “I think it’s important for you to know though that I am not in alliance with the flying rats.”

“You mean the birds?”

“Same thing,” you brushed him off. “I, for one, prefer sea animals.”

“Don’t sea animals sort of fly too since they’re not touching exactly the ground?”

You paused. Shifting your gaze, you tried to rationalize his words. He made a good point, but you were hell bent on making a better one. “Crabs don’t,” you quickly added. “I love crabs and turtles and other ground-touching sea creatures.”

“Turtles sometimes fly if we’re going with your logi-”

“We can go back and forth all day, but the point is I feel for you because I ,too, hate birds and the things they make us do.”

He sighed, narrowing his eyes on you. He licked his lip then offered the yogurt back to you. You looked between him and the food, raising a brow. “I have a class right now and my professor doesn’t allow food,” he explained.

“But what about your compensation?”

He smirked. “You’re smart. I’m sure you can come up with a way to make it up to me.”

Accepting the yogurt back, you silently thanked him. He only nodded and pulled out a deep blue pen. Opening your Scorates book, he jotted down his name and number on the first page. “Let me know what you come up with,” he smiled.

You twirl the engagement ring as the memory floods your mind once more. It’s been six years. He’s held onto these feelings for six years, only finally making them known to you three months before your wedding. You sent him an invitation thinking you were inviting an old friend. Now, you know you’ve reopened a chapter he has decided to close two years ago.

The part that surprises you, however, is the fact that you don’t regret inviting him, even after knowing how he feels. It should fill you with guilt, with distress, but instead it just makes you crave his presence.

Getting up from your seat, you make your way to the bookshelves in the living. Scouring the shelves, you find the book you’re looking for. You pull out the book on Socrates, flipping to the first page. His name and number stare back at you, and you suddenly have a hankering for blueberry yogurt.

Two sharp knocks rap against the front door. You snap your head towards it, shutting the book. Looking down the hall to your shared room with Jungkook, you find him still fast asleep. A breath you didn’t realize you were holding escapes you. Quickly, you make your way to the door. An envelope falls from the space between the edge of the door and the frame the moment you open it.

Only your name’s scratched on it in deep blue ink. You take a quick scan up and down the hallway of the apartment, but it remains vacant, not even the wet trail of the winter weather is left behind. You pick up the letter and close the door.

Tucking the book under your arm, you open the envelope and pull out the last fragment of the letter. His name greets you with a little heart sketched beside it. The notion almost shatters you. You shakily take your seat at the kitchen table, and slide the last piece into place, taping it with the others.

You sit in Jungkook’s apartment, but you wear Namjoon’s sweater. You have Jungkook’s ring but yearn for Namjoon’s heart. The guilt is starting to creep up on you, prickling your spine with anxious nerves that can’t manage to keep still.

“Did someone knock on the door?” Jungkook sleepily asks as he shuffles out of your shared room.

Moving quicker than you ever have in your life, you fold up the taped up letter and shove it in the book. “Huh?”

Jungkook rests his hands on your shoulders, and kisses the top of your head. “Someone at the door?” he repeats, lips against your hair.

You gulp, slowly melting into his touch. “No.”

He hums, circling around the table to enter the kitchen. “Thought I heard knocking.”

You drum your hands on the table, trying to imitate the knocks left moments ago. He nods his head, flashing you a little smirk. Getting some coffee prepared, he asks, “want some, babe.”

You shake your head and pick up the book, returning it to its place. Turning around, you find Jungkook leaning against the shelf, arms crossed over his chest.

“Go on.”

“What?”

“Tell me what’s got you pouty.”

“I’m not pouty!”

He smirks, gaze flickering from your wide eyes to your pout. He tongues his cheek, cocking a brow as if silently asking you to try again. He could see right through you, this you know all too well. It’s the reason why you stayed as quiet as you could the moment you heard his raspy, morning voice. And it’s also the reason, you don’t lie now; well, don’t completely lie.

“Just thinking about an old friend.”

He curls a loose strand of your hair behind your ear and pushes himself off the shelf. Wrapping his hands around your waist, he gently pulls you close. You can’t help but instantly mold into his frame, leaning your head against his firm chest. Namjoon almost slips right out of your mind, only your eyes fall back on the spine of that book.

But, as Jungkook rests his chin atop your head, you can’t find it in you to reach out for it anymore. Your heart doesn’t yearn for anything more, anything different. The comfort and safety you feel wrapped in Jungkook’s embrace is not something you can easily replace.

“Wanna talk about it?”

You shake your head, and inhale his scent. Your blueberry cravings disappear as your desire for strawberries takes over. Pulling back a bit, you reach up on your toes and pull Jungkook into a hug, settling your chin over his shoulder. He doesn’t think too much of the position change, making himself comfortable against you as well.

From bone to flesh, from mind to heart, all you feel is comfort. Winter letters and missed love confessions linger but you know where your loyalties lie. The possibilities of what could’ve and might’ve will always haunt you but the centainities of the here and now are undeniable. Jeon Jungkook is where you belong. And, as you stare at the crystal snow continuing to fall, you pray that’s where you’ll stay.

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other readers. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work without my permission.

#bhqdrabbles #bangtanhq #btsgoldnet #bangtanscenery #bangtanfairygarden #btswritingcafe #goldenclosetnet #jungkook angst #namjoon angst #bts fanfic

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jangofctts · 5 years ago

Text

Between Everything and Nothing (Cassian Andor x Reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 3.2K

Summary: It's hard to keep your chin up when it seems like everything is falling apart. You're plagued by constant nightmares, but you have Cassian and Cassian has you. It's enough.

Warnings: Smut (duh), language, mad dirty talk, oral sex female receiving, bunch of Cassian love over here

You'd been crying again. Or plagued by nightmares. Maybe both.

Dark swatches lingered like bruises beneath your red rimmed eyes that vacantly stared at your plate. Your fork trailed through the rations absentmindedly, your mouth pressed into an unusual frown. Cassian used to despise your playful quips and teasing chuckles, the man much more used to silence and his own thoughts than someone like you.

Now, though, as the metal tongs of your cutlery scraped against the plate for the hundredth time, he abruptly realized how much he hated your silence. It wasn't right—unnatural and off-putting.

He said your name, the first attempt at catching your attention flying right over your head. The second time your eyes, such curious and bright eyes, fluttered and shot up to meet his. The roguish grin that followed after tugged at something deep inside his chest.

"Hey—sorry," you hummed. "What was that?"

Cassian shook his head. "You need to eat."

"This stuff?" You laughed, scooping up the mush and letting it drip off your fork. It tasted as bad as it looked. "I'd rather get shipped off permanently to droid maintenance."

"That can be arranged," he quipped. "I would finally get some peace and quiet."

"Ha. Ha." You said, rolling you eyes. "You couldn't last a day without missing me, Captain Andor."

He hates that you're right.

"Just eat."

With a grumble you shovel a mouthful in and stick your tongue out.

-=-

He catches you this time.

His own nightmares had clawed their way to the surface and ripped away precious sleep. He'd wandered to the hangar, feet carrying him towards his U-Wing in hopes he'd be able to find something to tinker with. Though it was a long shot. You were the best damn mechanic he'd ever encountered and Cassian would bet money that his ship could fly better than any fighter ship in the Alliance thanks to you.

He only hears something when he's halfway up the loading ramp, choked sobs and the occasional sniff of someone in the cockpit of his ship. He draws his blaster and rounds the corner. Shoot first and ask questions later.

Cassian freezes once he recognizes those stupid slipper things you'd won off some poor bastard in Sabaac and the ratty old tank top you refused to throw away.

You were curled into his seat, knees drawn up so closely to your chest that it hides your face as your shoulders shake from the force of your tears.

His instincts screamed at him to run. Leave before she notices. Leave and pretend she's ok.

Yet, at the same time, a deep ache settles within his chest to see you like this. He wants to reach out. Wants to slip his fingers through your hair and cradle you to his chest and pretend for just a moment that nothing but you two existed.

He must've made some sort of sound because before he gets to decide to flee or face you, you look up.

"Cassian?" You sniff, your voice hoarse and wobbly as you wipe at your tears. "What-what are you doing here?"

He takes a step closer. "This is my ship."

"Oh. Yeah." You choke out with a broken half smile. "I guess it is."

You unfurl yourself from the seat, using your forearm to frantically scrub at the stray beads and try to hurry past him with a whispered goodnight. He's fast enough to catch your arm.

His slender fingers are warm against your bare skin, his calloused thumb skittering over smooth flesh and hard muscle. The urge to trail his entire palm up and down the expanse of your arm is torturous and he wonders if you've always been this soft.

You're looking up at him now, the emergency lights casting your features in a haunting red glow. Cassian can still see your eyes in the near darkness, something dark and vulnerable eating away at the edges. He parts his mouth to say something, ask what's wrong, but he can't seem to get the words out. He falters and drops your arm.

"Cassian," you say, much softer than he's ever heard it from you. It makes his heart flutter like a caged bird. "I—"

"You can stay." He cuts you off, something snarling in his stomach at the thought of you leaving. "I don't mind."

Your brows crease and you study the floor and when you look up again, your face is fixed with another goofy grin. It doesn't quite reach your eyes and if Cassian didn't know you as well as he did, it would have him fooled.

"Thanks," you sniff, backtracking towards the ramp so suddenly it jars him. "Didn't mean to cry all over your chair. Pretty gross, huh?"

He follows and murmurs your name as you step onto the duracrete. This time as Cassian moves to grab your arm again you evade him. He's scrambling for words to keep you here, but nothing springs to mind and you escape.

"Night, Cass." You say, offering him a half hearted salute. "See ya tomorrow."

You disappear behind an X-Wing and Cassian regrets not following.

-=-

The third time is after after the Alliance had been hit hard. Hard enough that you lose more than a handful of friends. You don't grieve openly. You can't.

You were a beacon of light and warmth for many and letting them see the fissures in your resolve would surely cause spirits to plummet even further. Cassian doesn't know wether to feel lucky that he knows that half of yourself you hide away or devastated that even someone with a soul brighter than any star could be worn down to the very bones of their existence.

He wants to laugh when someone knocks on his door. It was the first time in months he'd been able to sleep with little difficulty and now he's being called upon in the middle of the night.

He throws open the door, ready to snarl at the poor soul who stood on the other side. Cassian's irritation melts away when he sees you. You look as tired as he feels, your hair a bit of a mess from a sleepless night, and yet, you're still so beautiful.

Your teeth clamp down on your bottom lip and he can't help but trace your mouth.

"Did I wake you up?" You ask, fiddling with your sleeve. You're nervous for once and Cassian worries.

"No." He lies.

A long pause ensues as you struggle for words that normally flow like a river from your lips. You start to say something and it fizzles out then comes out backwards or jumbled or too quiet for Cassian to understand. "You know—I should, uh, I should go. Yeah, I'm gonna leave. Sorry about—about bothering you."

You're quick to turn on your heel, but he's quicker and snatches your hand. He doesn't tell you how perfectly your fingers fit into his, but you must know. Right?

"Stay," he whispers, the word sounding much too loud compared to the hauntingly silent hallway. He takes your silence for fear or embarrassment, but he realizes it is surprise and a moment later he's stepping aside to let you in.

Cassian retreats back to his bed, sheets still warm and sits down. Your eyes are scanning the room, studying the sparse walls and the unfolded pile of laundry abandoned on his only chair. You've been to his quarters before, usually only to get him to go with you to the cantina or keep you company while you work on his ship.

It's different now. Tension thick enough to cut with a lightsaber.

"I'm assuming you're not here to tell me you got caught cheating in Sabaac again, yes?" He tries to joke. It does the trick and you visibly relax with a chuckle.

You wander over to where he pats the space beside him and you crash onto the mattress, bumping your shoulder into his. His heart skips a beat when you don't lean away. "Nah. And if it weren't for me cheating, your sorry ass would still be in that stupid jail."

Ah, that's right.

Cassian snorts. "I had it handled."

"Yeah, I'm sure you did," you retort.

With a sigh, you lean back until you're spread out over his blankets, your legs hanging off the edge. Cassian lies down too and stares at the uneven texture of the ceiling. You say nothing for the better half of ten minutes, and Cassian wonders if you'd fallen asleep. He turns and you've got that vacant stare where you're lost in your head. It gives him an excuse to study the soft planes of your face, your plush lips slightly pursed in thought as your brows furrow. A stray hair covers your forehead and he wants to brush it away.

His heart pounds at his ribcage and with a brief moment of courage, he does so. You blink and look at him, a fragile smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

He finds the words that escaped him in his ship all those nights ago and he asks you why you're here. Are you alright?

Your grin falters and you look away. Your fingers graze against his knuckles and they twitch into your touch but makes no move to fully encompass your hand.

Your words come out slow and soft and his chest tightens. "You—You are the only thing that makes sense to me, Cassian."

He understands and his fingers curl around yours to show that he does. Your breath stutters and you give him a squeeze.

Stray tears trail down your cheek and Cassian props himself onto an elbow. You avoid his gaze. "Look at me."

You listen and with baited breath he cups your face and gently swipes at a tear with his thumb. You mouth his name and he's leaning into you until he's pressing his lips to yours. You melt underneath his kiss, your hand curling into his hair, the other one still tangled with his. Your touch is intoxicating and Cassian deepens the kiss, tongue trailing across your bottom lip. Your mouth opens and his tongue slides along yours.

You part and he rests his forehead on yours as your fingers caress his stubbled cheek. He suppresses a shiver and leans into your touch. "I've wanted to do that for ages."

"Yeah, me too."

He kisses you again, but it's more than that. You're the undertow of a raging sea, sweeping him into your depths and holding him captive until he can't breath. Yet, you're the only thing he can inhale. He could drown in your scent, in your kisses, in your love, and he doesn't care if it kills him. You make a sound low in your throat as he licks deep into your mouth and he doesn't care if your teeth click together because he's desperate and aching for you.

You bite his bottom lip and tug, paired with your hand giving the soft tufts of hair on the back of his neck a gentle yank and he's so fucking gone. He's already half-hard against your hip, he knows you can feel it because you're flashing him a coy smirk and trailing your fingers down the planes of his chest, over his naval and then you're unbuckling his belt. Your fingers hover over his waistband, drawing teasing circles above where he needs you and his patience snaps. He captures your hand and grinds against you and you finally relent

He sucks in a breath like you've punched him in the jaw as your fingers wriggle underneath the fabric and wrap around his cock, thick and hot. You give him a few gentle strokes and then your thumb sweeps over the tip, collecting the bead of moisture there. You lightly scrape your nail across the frenulum and it nearly sends him over the edge and he rips himself away from you. It's embarrassing how fast you bring him towards release and he shouldn't care with you, but he wants this to last.

You sit up as your face contorts and he doesn't mean to hurt your feelings. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, never," he breaths, leaning forward to kiss away your frown. "I liked that a little too much."

You mouth forms a silent 'oh' and you take this little break to pull off your shirt and your pants that end up crumpled on the floor. You're naked and you look like a damn fantasy curled over his bed. His bed. Maker how many times has he imagined this exact moment?

Cassian rips his own clothes off and he's tugging your thighs around his narrow waist so he can mold himself onto you. He plants his lips over the pulse on your throat and he digs his teeth into your flesh, marking the delicate skin there. You whine, huff out his name, and he releases the bruised skin. He presses a kiss against it, likes the way it stands out, and he continues to tongue and nibble over the column of your throat that you readily expose for him until there's a trail of marks left behind.

Soft, fragile sounds are pouring out of your mouth and he wishes he could save them for an eternity. He mouths over your collarbone and trails on hand up to your breast and he pulls back to admire your heaving chest. A tiny smile is etched across your lips and his heart swells so much that his chest aches. "You're beautiful."

He doesn't think he's ever seen you blush. "Shut up."

"You are," he whispers, leaning forward to press a kiss over your sternum. "You're--fuck--so distracting. Nearly--nearly crashed the ship that one time. Remember?"

You dig your fingers into his back, leaving half-moon shapes behind as he brushes his thumb over your peaked nipple, as you whine out a response. With his tongue he swirls teasing circles around the other nipple and when he sucks it between his lips and bites down carefully, you moan and arch into him. He rolls the other one firmly between his forefinger and thumb, your eyes snapping shut.

"I can hardly stand it when you smile at me," he growls, engulfing the entirety of you breast in his warm palm. He gives the flesh a squeeze. "Shit--I love you."

He barely realizes he's told you and it's not as terrifying as he thought it would be. There is some uncertainty but when you open your eyes and flash him a smile so bright and big he thinks his heart might finally explode, all his doubts are blown away. You drag Cassian back to your lips by the jaw and he feels your bottom lip catch against his as you tell him you love him too.

"Will you...will you let me taste you?" He groans, breaking away to bury his nose into your hair. "Please? I've been--been imagining what you--shit-- taste like. I bet--bet you taste good."

"Cassian," you whine, bucking your hips. His cock is throbbing against your hip, harder than reinforced steel but all he can think about is getting his mouth on the dripping wetness between your legs. "Yes. Yes."

He sweeps down your torso, drunk on your skin and suckles another hickey over the protrusion of your hip bone. Cassian hooks your legs over his shoulders and nuzzles his stubble along the velvety skin feeling oh so lucky when you giggle and slip your hands into his hair. Your laugh tapers off into a desperate sigh as he uses just the tip of his forefinger to slip through your slit, the digit coming away shiny with your arousal. He parts your legs wider and finally swipes his tongue over your clit, moaning as he finally gets to taste you.

His mouth his searing hot and his tongue feels like silk as he swipes it over your lips, suckles at your labia and licks back up to your clit. He traces patterns across it, the tip of tongue catching so deliciously and then he dips back down again. You shudder as his thumbs slide up to gently part your cunt and his tongue leaves a burning trail until he reaches your opening. He has to throw an arm over your hips to keep you from squirming so much, and Maker, you feel Cassian smile before he licks as far into you as he can.

You're burning, broken pleas and drawn out moans of his name pouring out of you. And then, any kind of rational thinking is completely thrown out the fucking window as two of his slender fingers sink into your cunt. They curl inside you, brush against something electrifying, and you can't be bothered to be embarrassed about the keening moan that's much too loud for this time of night. It feels too good. You bite your lip and clench a handful of his hair, the vibration of his groan adding on to the pleasure of him sucking at your clit while his fingers slowly begin to drag in and out of you.

He pulls away for a moment, his hot breath fanning over your cunt and you want to cry out in frustration. Your core clenches around his digits at the loss of his tongue and you try to pull him back to you. "Please."

With his free hand, he rubs your thigh and kisses the inside of your knee. "Can I make you cum like this? Let...let you--shit--let you finish over my tongue? You'll look so pretty for me."

You don't know how it's possible to be even more turned on than you are, but it happens and you can feel yourself dripping on to his fingers and leaking over the sheets. His fingers are curling and twisting into something that's got your thighs shaking and fuck. A few more passes of his tongue over your swollen clit and another well placed thrust of his fingers--you're fucking gone.

You arch your back as everything below your waist is set on fire. The tension in your stomach--wound tighter than a fucking spool of wire--snaps and blinding light flashes across your vision. Your core clamps down on his calloused digits and you cum into his mouth, a flood of wetness staining his mouth that continues to lick you through it. He's moaning and hooking his hands under your ass to pull you closer as you twitch and shake--your brain lost somewhere between chaos and unsurmountable pleasure.

Things feel as if they're in slow-motion as you slowly come back down to reality. Cassian pulls away from your core, wipes at his mouth that's covered with your slick, and slips his body next to your flushed and panting one. He draws shapes and swirls into the space right below your breast and nuzzles into the crook of your neck. He's whispering about how good you were for him, how soft and warm, and wet around his fingers you were and when you're finally able to process and organize your scattered thoughts, he's dragging you into an open mouthed kiss.

You can taste yourself on him and he grinds his cock against the swell of your hip, leaking precum that dribbles onto your skin. He bites at your shoulder, another bolt of arousal shooting through your belly.

"Let me make you feel good."

#rogue one #star wars #cassian andor #cassian andor x reader #cassian andor x you #this pure filth y'all #reader insert #diego luna #fanfic #smut

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player-1 · 4 years ago

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Anyone who’s been in the TMA fandom (or those who understand the bare minimum of the story) know damn well that whatever was going on with Michael D. Stortion and Gabriel/Worker-of-Clay was not just a simple Avatar/Entity partnership. No, in the twisted timeline of the Spiral itself, the Armageddon arms-race pales in comparison to the romantic tragedy subplot those two had long before Jon and Martin were in the picture.

(This is also going to be a long one, and with some MAG 101 spoilers, so buckle on in...)

Here’s what I mean:

Gabriel (or in this case, Gabe) works with Neil Lagorio (Web aligned special-effects dude) in the mid 1900′s on their first movie The Labyrinth of the Minotaur. Unfortunately for him, Gabe quits in 1972 just as the movie was released.

Not much is known of this time after 1972 up until the dreaded sculpting class in 2004. Speculation-wise, Gabriel might have been corrupted by the Flesh during his movie-making times or earlier before he came into contact with the Spiral.

Reasons: -The Spiral connects with the unraveling of reality, question one’s sanity and eventually “spiraling” into insanity. -The Flesh, in its literal sense, connects to the fear of people or animals being killed for meat; even the appearance of flesh/bone being twisted, bent, or butchered. But it can also connect on a emotional level, such as being viewed weaker than others, mostly relating to a person’s body image. That’s also the reason why the nature of his death is completely unlike the Spiral simply letting him fade out of reality. -Gabriel displays more Flesh-like qualities in his appearance and work up until the end of MAG 126. He doesn’t want people to judge him by appearance alone (even if his entire body is made up of clay) but he makes up for it with his unassuming personality and amazing talent. In a literal sense, he wants to mold himself into the kind of person that gets praised for his clay-making abilities, not just from his creations alone.

[Enter Ｔｈｅ　Ｄｉｓｔｏｒｔｉｏｎ: Stage Left] Of course, while there’s no evidence on how, when or why the Distortion would target him specifically, but there is one thing. Compared to all the other Spiral avatars and fear-aligned creatures, they all used to be humans in the past. The Spiral by nature is to cast aside their humanity and submit to the nature of insanity. But since most of the Spiral avatars either faded out of existence or just refused to do anything ritual-wise, how was it supposed to create a new world if all they ever do is destroy? It adopts an artist, of course. There’s nothing more chaotic than the struggles of a budding sculptor such as himself. But while that may be a convincing argument for the Spiral to get Gabriel to join the Dark Side, there could be more to convince him that it’s worth following the unknowable being of delusions. Long story short, there was no reason for Gabriel to judge himself so poorly if he knew how to reshape the world to how he sees fit. it would convince him that, like the archangel he’s named after, he could show the world the coming future; twisting the laws of reality so that there’s no room to judge how something should be right or wrong, imaginary or real. As if they were said from the Lord himself, Gabriel heard the Distortion’s tell him about a new world and finally found inspiration in them.

Then comes the sculpting class. It’s worth noting that, even with the angel symbolism for Michael and Gabriel, it could be implied that Gabriel is also a goody-two-shoes Christian boy who regularly attends church, as evidence of Michael having knowledge about Mass in MAG 20, assisting the Flesh in driving Father Edwin to cannibalism (so the Flesh and Spiral have an interesting partnership, huh?). Besides that, this is where Gabriel takes the spotlight. From Deborah’s point of view, he was a strange little man from the beginning; eyes always jutted out of his face, appearing right in someone’s personal space and disappearing just as fast, and of course, his works of clay. (Also a random headcanon just because: Gabriel may be afraid of water, either because his entire body being made of clay, and since you need water to help shape the material, he does not want to get it melded into his own flesh. Could also be the reason why he has short and greasy hair, cause he would practically melt into a puddle if he was unfortunate enough to get wet.) And apart from Deborah and her friends’ growing discomfort over Gabriel in general, he’s just vibing in the back of the class, trying to make a shape for the unknowable form of the Distortion. And the second Deborah inadvertently gives him a break from his artist’s block, he quite literally takes control of the class; switching over the biweekly schedule it was before into every week, and even manipulating the space of the classroom to further support his artistic needs.

“Ray told us the lesson was ‘faces.’ I put my hand up to say that sculpting faces was probably a bit advanced for where we were in the course, but he shook his head, and said that we were… a lot more talented than we thought. He said the key was that faces were twisted. All faces were twisted on the inside, and all you had to do was reach into the deepest part of yourself and put that twisted on the outside of the clay, and as soon as you can scream you’ll have your own face staring back at you.” (MAG 126)

This is also the key to the Spiral itself. With Gabriel’s assistance, he will be able to let the spiral to insanity move in reverse, create the physical manifestation of that fear instead of letting it collapse and destroy itself. And in that lesson as well, Gabriel finally creates a fitting image of the Distortion...A door, the physical entrance to insanity itself.

Then comes the final stretch in Sannikov Land, the nonexistent island that was said to exist between the years 2009 and 2011. And as Michael D. Stortion explains in MAG 101, was the perfect place for their ritual, The Great Twisting. After everything Gabriel had done to appease his good “friend”, The Distortion seemed extremely invested in the Worker of Clay at that point. Nevermind the fact that its telling Jon how its identity was stolen away from Michael Shelley by merging with the Distortion, but there’s more to this origin story.

“Michael was protective of the frail old woman he believed her to be. So… so delicate, so forgetful, yet gently wise. He cared for her. He trusted her. And she fed him to me. She made him to destroy our transcendence. And she did not hesitate.” “And it was me they sought to stop. Me and the others of It-Is-Not-What-It-Is. Our Great Twisting. The-Worker-of-Clay had laboured for decades on that contorted, impossible edifice of doors… and stairs… and falsehoods… and smiles. A thousand staring morsels stood, and not one of them believed themselves sane to look upon it. And in the centre, the door that would open to all the places that were never there, was me.“ “Perhaps I should have realised what was happening; seen those two lonely figures approaching me, but I cannot tell you the existential joys of truly… becoming. Of an entireness finally crossing the threshold into your self. So ecstatic was my completeness, I did not even hear my own door creak open.“ “Even sharper than the joy of becoming is the agony of being opened and remade. To have your who torn bloody from your what, and another crudely lashed into its place. To become Michael. And to do so at such a crucial point in our Twisting, in our becoming, well of course it destroyed it. The impossible altar collapsed. The-Worker-of-Clay tore out his veins to dissolve himself in crimson mud. The others of us were cast to all the places that aren’t; some have still not found their way out again...My very existence tied to my pointlessness. Wearing my failure as the very fabric of my being. Reduced once again to feeding on the unsuspecting and confused. That is who I am.“ (MAG 101)

Even if all of this was to explain how the Distortion became the being it is in the series, it’s easy to see how overjoyed it was during the ritual. All that the Spiral ever did was bring the sense of unreality and paranoia unto people for ages, only breaking down the mind until they eventually spiral into oblivion. It wanted to be something, it wanted to make something twisted and nonsensical from the world, to shape the world itself to the nature of insanity. And after all that time, no matter how many avatars it had in its control, Gabriel was the only one who began creating the ritual. Even if it was for an ulterior motive, The Distortion was pretty giddy as Gabriel worked for years on end to create the meaning of insanity; to create something that the Distortion saw as the perfect vessel for itself. And even as it was explaining it, with all these feelings of joy and ecstasy and very human thoughts and emotions, this was before it was forced to become Michael. So much for not being bound by human nature, huh? But it’s pretty ironic that, as the embodiment of delusions, insanity and lies, it never considered the idea of having an avatar that could make something out of that chaos. Even if the Distortion was explaining how Michael-not-Michael Shelley came into being, it also can be interpreted as Michael just yearning for his best Avatar so far. So instead of “I’m going to tell you my entire backstory.”, it’s more like “I’m going to tell you how a nosy old woman and her idiotic assistant ruined my chances to be with my Avatar of the Decade who may or may not be my boyfriend.”

In conclusion, Gabriel AKA The Worker of Clay AKA Igor with an art degree became the Hands of the Spiral because the nonbinary embodiment of delusion (who is also a door) gave a miserable struggling artist a shot of self-confidence (and a shot out of the Flesh’s control), eventually becoming its #1 Boyfriend Avatar of all time, and is the only person that would make the “hates gender and existence itself” Distortion yearn for years after his tragic death.

Takes notes people, this is what peak performance looks like.

#not kh #tma #the magnus archives #tma spoilers #tma michael #tma gabriel #tma michael shelley #gay shit #shitpost #rant post #text post

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wantstoflyafraidtofall · 4 years ago

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3x16 from Dean's perspective and the rescue from Hell

TW/CW: graphic depictions of Dean's death and what Demons look like.

read on Ao3

Tags: @kinda-not-really-vibing, @i-dont-even-wanna-know, @chris-krat

(fic under cut)

All that he has learned was how fragile and replaceable it all was. Every one of us gnats played a role but there were still too many for each one to matter. So why does Dean’s life seem matter more than the rest? Dean has been brought back more than anyone should be already, and it’s taken its toll. His soul is in tatters, held together by scotch tape and super glue, because he needed to be here longer for all the other souls that he could save.

And now it’s time to save them.

That’s what Dean had thought when he sold his soul for his brother, what he told himself so he wouldn’t feel like shit for bringing his brother back because he can’t stand to be alone. Now he wasn’t so sure that he had truly saved anyone.

The clock chimed, the black metal cutting across the white face of the clock to point its jagged claw at the twelve. The bell’s toll rang through the room, and Dean couldn’t help but to stare. It rang again and again as to mock holy churches and their white steeples filled with bronze bells being tugged into making music by their ropes.

The dark pillar of the grandfather clock melted into the shadows behind it, the pendulum swinging side to side with a smooth grace, pulling the chains and making the weights lift and fall, lift and fall, behind the clear crystal glass and thorny inlay.

The bells kept going, the sounds being knocked out of their bronze hollows. Each time the clapper struck the inside of the bells, making them shake to produce the beautiful symphony of noises, Dean couldn’t help feeling like those were more like melodic screams than music. He couldn’t help but feel like a bell, constantly knocked around to make harmonies for the pleasure of others.

When the dogs came, with their blood stained teeth in feral grins, dead white eyes framed in decaying flesh and matted fur, smelling of smoke and rot, Dean felt the miniscule vibrations of the bells deep in his bones, melting the marrow inside into a paste for the the dogs to lick out of each ivory shell.

He ran from the beasts who followed on legs of scorched bone and chunks of pulsing muscle that bent in all the wrong ways and places. There was no hope of keeping the things out now that he saw them, but he frantically poured the goofer dust in lines on the windowsills anyway.

Sam and Ruby stood by the door, Ruby asking for the demon knife and Sam debating handing it over. Dean’s body wretched when he saw Ruby’s face, skin hanging off the gnawed bones in fleshy, burnt ribbons. Patches of hair remained on the purple, white, and red skin and bone of her head, and her jaw was cracked and crooked, dangling from it’s socket, yellow, splintered teeth showing through the rotten holes in her cheek. When she spoke it jerked around, pulling the frayed tendons and clacking her crooked teeth together in sickening movements. But her eyes…

“Wait!” Dean finds his voice.

“You wanna die?” The demon turns to him, the scratchiness of her voice clawing out of her tongueless, flopping mouth.

Dean swallowed the rising bile in his throat as he watched her talk. “Sam, that's not Ruby,” He took a breath, “It's not Ruby!”

Lilith raises the remnants of her arm, launching Dean onto the desk in the back of the room, knocking the air out of his lungs and pinning Sam to the wall.

“How long you been in her?” Dean gasps out.

A vile grin twists the skin around her mouth in what Dean would assume would look like a childlike smile if she had more skin.

“Not long,” She gestures to her middle where light pink organs spilled out of the gaping holes in her skin, pulsating as they struggled to perform. “But I like it. It's all grown up and pretty.”

“And where's Ruby?” Sam interjected.

She tilted her head, the vertebrae of her back and neck clicking together in unnatural angles to make a sickening crunch. “She was a very bad girl, so I sent her far, far away.”

“You know, I should have seen it before... but you all look alike to me.” Dean grits out with a smile.

She glares at him before turning her attention to Sam, sauntering as well as a decaying corpse to Dean’s brother.

“Hello, Sam.” Lilith grabs Sam’s face in her rotten fingers, forcing him to look at her. “I've wanted to meet you for a very long time.”

Dean watches Lilith kiss his brother with her bloody lips, the muscles of her face convulsing under the thin, translucent skin where it remained on her face.

“Your lips are soft.” She whispered and Dean felt tears prickle in the corners of his eyes.

They wouldn’t have to deal with this if Dean had just left well enough alone. Sam has spent every waking hour(which was most hours) in pain trying to save Dean. Dean brought him back so he could keep living, and Sam isn’t even living. Now he has to watch his brother die.

“Right, so you have me. Let my brother go.” Sam snarled.

“Silly goose. You wanna bargain, you have to have something that I want.” Her body seemed to shake with her glee at the situation. “You don't.”

“So, is this your big plan, huh? Drag me to hell. Kill Sam. And then what? Become queen bitch?” Anger bubbled in his breast as he looked at the demon.

“I don't have to answer to puppy chow.” She hissed and a fresh wave of pain shot through Dean’s body, making him grimace and bite back a groan.

Lilith walks back to the door to the room where the hellhound sat outside. An exhilarated look took over her deteriorated features and blank eyes as she wrapped her fingers around the handle. “Sic 'em, boy.”

“No! Stop!” Sam screamed, still pinned to the wall.

The huge beast sprung through the open door, it’s scaldingly hot paws pinning Dean’s arms to the floor where he had dropped. It sunk it’s barbed teeth into Dean’s shoulder, ripping through the flesh with ease.

Dean screamed, squirming underneath the dog. Sam kept screaming while Lilith watched from the sidelines, a smile on her face.

The dog let it’s claws glide across Dean’s chest. Sam screamed again. Dean needed it to stop. He needed to tell Sam it’ll be okay and that he was sorry, but when he opened his mouth, he could only gargle through the hot blood bubbling up his throat.

The dog continued to tear at him, pulling his skin apart to bite at the soft organs inside and knaw his ribs. The pain melted together until everything felt like it was on fire and his vision was as red as the crimson puddle he was lying in.

Dean’s last thoughts before it all stopped was that he was that he deserved this. He deserved to go to hell and all the pain he’ll experience for the rest of eternity. And then the pain ended, only to be replaced in concentrated points where the beast gripped his soul, dragging him down through the earth.

He clawed at the dirt but it burnt his hands. He tried to scream but his lungs filled with ash and smoke as waves of scalding heat pummeled over him as they got closer to the waves of fire licking at the shores of ground up bone coating the ground. Hooks were driven through his limbs and the meat of his torso, jerking him up in the air above the lake of flames.

It was so loud. The roar of fire and cacophony of screams coming from the racks of mangled bodies. The cries from the bodies chained in the air or tied to the sizzling black pillars of stone holding up the inky black sky of smoke.

He deserves this.

~~~~

Long spiderwebs of cracks rocketed down the bedrock pillars as the ceiling of Hell ripped open. Dean dropped the rusted knife he held in his hand, the tatters of his soul reaching towards the creature pushing through the hole in the smoke. He watched as the white-blue being flew through the fire, the flames bending away from its many heads and hands. It opened its mouths and a high pitched screech overpowered the screams of the tortured souls.

Bolts of lightning struck out with each flap of the beings mighty wings, bending in arches and bouncing expertly off the many weapons brandished by the creature as it soared towards Dean, striking down the legions of demons rising to attack. It landed near him, shaping into a more human figure but remained haloed in bright light.

Dean let it approach him and wrap its arm around his chest, its hand burning into the skin of his shoulder as it took off, flapping its great wings and propelling them towards the bright gash in the smoke ceiling.

The creature was warm, not like the fire of hell, but warm like the distant memories Dean had of earth he held locked away where the black tendrils of hell would never reach. He let his soul reach out to the creature, wrapping itself in the soft feeling.

“DEAN WINCHESTER IS SAVED.” A deep voice rumbled through all of hell.

He was saved.

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composereggwrites · 4 years ago

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Fear not the Song (Consume the Love it Sings to You)

Fandom: The World Ends With You (TWEWY) Rating: M Warnings: Author Chose Not To Warn Characters/Ships: Joshua Kiryu/Neku Sakuraba Additional: Mind Control, Dubious Consent, Unhealthy Relationships, Possessive Behavior, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Worship, References to (non-drug) Addiction, Implied Potential Sexual Content, Self-Harm, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

There is a pin in your hand.

There is a smile on Joshua’s face, as he gives it to you. Soft smile, words on his lips, “My own design, to keep you safe.”

A gift from the Composer of Shibuya. A blessing, one that promises you will always belong to him. That you belong to the city that sings you such sweet songs.

(Even if you don't know it yet.)

AO3 or Below

There is a pin in your hand.

There is a smile on Joshua’s face, as he gives it to you. Soft smile, words on his lips, “My own design, to keep you safe.”

It’s a pretty pin. A white feather against a purple background. Simple, clean. You can hear the echoes of Joshua’s Music on the item, intermingling with the ambient sounds of Shibuya to create a song of beauty.

Your smile matches his, soft at the edges. Josh is your friend, and maybe it’s those holes the bullets have carved through your head, your heart, but your care for all your friends has filled the empty spaces within.

There is a pin on your shirt.

Pretty and purple, placed over your heart, and you keep it there. Ensure it stays in its place each day, each new clothing change. It hums, and maybe there was more space in those holes to be filled, because the buzz reverberates in the cavern of your chest.

You’re hanging out with Joshua, and that feels right. You’re falling, you know, letting your thoughts wander to him even when he’s not near. Through the twisting tunnels of your synapses. Runaway melodies circling, circling, c i r c l i n g around him. Tracing the curves of his hair, the precise motions of his fingers as he tap tap taps the tune of the city out against his leg.

He smirks at you, all sharp edges, except they’re not pointed at you, just around you. Needles pointing out, and that infuriating look burns in the depths of your ribcage. Brings a metallic tang to your mouth, and you don’t know why, not really. But you like this. It buries itself in your bones.

Josh laughs, and your restraint almost wavers, as you trace his lips with your eyes. You do not act. Yet.

There is a pin clutched in your fist, as you browse the options for college.

It’s unconscious, at this point. Grasping at your anchor, your heart. The pulse within soothes your nerves. So many options, as you flip through the brochures. As you flinch away from the one that isn’t in Shibuya. Hiss at the pain in your fingertips, at having brushed against it with the intent to consider.

The idea roils in your stomach, naseauting, acidic. Leave Shibuya?

Absolutely not.

You don’t know why, why. It was one of your top picks, two years ago, when you fought and regained your will to live.

Shibuya protests, as you gingerly pick up all the fliers for outside schools. Your hand protests. Barely wants to go near them. But you have to, in order to toss them in the trash.

Don’t think about the way it unsettles you. Ignore the translucent barrier that keeps you from questioning this. Bask in the warmth the soft lavender shines in your mind instead, the gentle caress, the praise of choosing right. The beat of home in your blood.

There is a pin drawing blood from your skin.

You’re in the hotel, clutching at your one lifeline. A family trip to the beach, one last hurrah before you graduate. The idea didn’t settle right, when suggested, but you went along with it for them. It was so hard to be considerate of your parents, so hard to let them dictate this. You just want him. But it was only temporary, after all. One small vacation.

Instead, you lay in bed, fever burning in your body as emptiness claws against the inside of your skin. Against the roof of your mouth.

You are empty, and cold, and there is no Shibuya singing sweet melodies to you. No Music wrapped around your limbs, guiding you through her.

Shaking, shivering, unable to muster up any energy. Unable to eat, or drink. You need Shibuya. Need him. Need to bury yourself in his skin, or let him climb inside you. Play host to a god, because that’s the only way you’ll ever feel whole again.

The pin is unclasped, needle digging into your palm. Into your arm. Anywhere you can stab, you do, painting your body with the blood. The blood isn’t as important as getting the Imagination and Music of that beautiful design into your body, though. Each stab brings a spike of relief, clarity in the haze of wrong you inhabit.

In the end, your parents end the trip early. Take you back home. Don’t see the blood hidden under long sleeves.

(You can tell, the moment you cross back into Shibuya. Back home. The Music coils around your heart, pounding a tune, singing you’re mine. Don’t leave, you’re mine. You belong here.

It’s right, of course. You were foolish to let your parents take you from this city. The notes flow through your veins, calling you back to health. The piece missing from you has partially slotted back into place.

But now that you’ve seen the acute emptiness in your chest, the return is only a salve. The void of need demands more than this.)

Shaking off the remnants of your fever, you slump into your room, the taste of sickness still on your tongue.

Until you see Josh standing there, worried for you perhaps, and you decide you want the taste of Shibuya on your tongue instead.

It’s sparks of bliss better than any drug, taking him by surprise, and claiming him as yours. Your god, your home. Or maybe that’s wrong? You’re the one that belongs to him, after all. You’d carve your body into a temple just to let him reside inside, fill the awful ache of need resting in your chest. In every inch of your being.

Or you could climb into him? Your tongue is doing a good job of that, as he reciprocates. Nails dig into your skin, yours into his. His grace filling your desperate lungs.

It’s sloppy. It’s your first time kissing a god, after all. But he just laughs, and Imprints the thought of Someone’s missed me, huh?

You’d respond, but the pressure of His Will in your head makes you melt. It reverberates to your core, deeper than you knew there was space in you to go. So much space, and it’s all so empty.

(He knows the answer, anyway. You’re His for the taking. Every inch of your love laid bare for Him to see, to know how much you belong to Him.)

Hours later (though it could be days, or an eternity for you all care),with Him laying against your chest, sprawled on top of you, contentment settles in your body.

It’s not enough, not really, but the demanding, burning need has dulled with Him at your side, blurring the edges between the two of you.

“Tattoo me.”

You don’t know if the words truly pass your lips, but He perks up. He gets the idea.

“Are you sure, Neku? It’ll hurt.”

Yes, you want to scream. He laughs, at the shout from your mind, and nods. Sits, straddled over your body. Your shirt is long gone, one less barrier between the two of you, and that makes it oh so simple for Him to place one hand above your heart.

It sears your skin. The stranglehold of Music increases tenfold. Chains and fishhooks tearing at your flesh. Convulsions through your nervous system. Pain, agony, flooding your system.

Your heart stutters as He brands you with His mark. The sigil He gave you years ago. A gift of love, a blessing, to ensure you would always be His. Had you known back then, surely you’d have denied it, turned away out of fright.

But now, as divinity devours you, the blindfold that once shrouded your eyes, made you fear such a fate, has been lifted. Your sight is clearer now than it’s ever been, able to so appreciate the luck you have, having gained the attention, the affection, of your God.

A thousand suns and neon light, stars bursting across your vision with enlightenment, as the power sinks into your chest. Into every empty nook and cranny. Replacings the pounding of your heart with the pounding of drums. It still moves the blood in your veins, thrumming with energy and the life He has granted you. Music is a form of worship, and your God loves the sound.

You’d never deny Him anything.

There is a design, resting on your chest as you rest at the base of His throne, waiting for Him to return. Simple, a beautiful, rich purple, with a white feather in the center.

It hums, a buzz of satisfaction in your Soul, tied so close to the City, to Shibuya. She sings to you, stories in splashes of color, and you move your body to fulfill the ideas She puts in your head, praising Her when He is not here to demand it instead. You breathe life into the shrine of your body, into the temple you inhabit.

The sole priest of your Gods, one as two as one, the one and both that have gifted you with the clarity needed to follow them. The songs in your head have buried themselves deep enough that there was never going to be another choice. Not for you.

This is where you Belong.

#twewy #the world ends with you #joshneku #Joshua Kiryu #Neku Sakuraba #Kiryu Yoshiya #yoshiya kiryu #Sakuraba Neku #Subarashiki Kono Sekai

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songfell-ut · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter 5 already, huh

In which I personally feel sorry for Sans only a little bit, guess when

Oh, and @lostmypotatoes? My brother actually doesn’t have The Virus, which makes me feel even worse for randomly shouting at you about it just because I happened to have our conversation open when I saw the text from my mom. Sorry again! Official chaptery link found here.

Sans had gotten used to waking up in a luxurious, his-sized bed, and after a full week with the High Priestess, he felt he could handle being stuck in the humans' castle for twenty-three more days; it was amazing to sleep so soundly, and he could think of about a million worse fates than spending his waking hours with Frisk. What he could not handle was having a really wonderful dream like that, only to wake up wifeless, childless, and absolutely certain he'd remain that way for the rest of his unnatural life.

He tried not to blame Frisk for it, he really did, but as he emerged from his room, she was sitting at the worktable in her robe with another goddamn proposal in hand, as if to taunt him. "Good...morning," she said. "Are you all right?"

"F'fn m'rg," he muttered.

"I see. I didn't sleep well, either." When he didn't respond, the priestess shrugged and went back to her letter.

The boss monster sat down at the worktable and selected a book at random, trying to shake off the feeling of his dream-wife messing with his face. Less than five minutes later, someone knocked at the door; Sans started to sweep books and mixing tools aside to make room for breakfast, but Frisk shook her head as she got up. "It's Sunday, and I have matins in less than an hour. We won't get fed till afterwards. One minute, please!"

She was about halfway across the room when Sans sat bolt upright: the bar across the doors was lifting itself, and the double doors swung open from the outside. "Good morning," said a soft, scratchy voice.

"Er...good morning, Dr. Serif," Frisk said as the man walked in. "Please, have a seat."

"Thank you." Though the worktable had several chairs pushed beneath it at widely spaced intervals, the doctor sat down next to Sans, ignoring the skeleton's glare and addressing Frisk: "When I informed His Majesty that I would be coming here this morning, he asked me to tell you that he and the Prince will be attending matins. I've brought several men to escort you to the chapel as soon as you're ready."

The High Priestess blinked, and said, "I see." She picked up her veil and headdress from the edge of the worktable. "Please excuse me, then."

Sans waited for her to disappear into her dressing room before he rounded on the royal sorcerer, resisting the urge to grab him by the neck. "What the hell are you doin' here, ya creepy bastard? You steal my magic 'n make Frisk use it, ya come here without askin' and open doors all by yerself—and how come we need a bunch of extra guys to go t'church all of a sudden?"

"She needs them because you will be staying here," said Dr. Serif, unperturbed. "We have several things to discuss, many of which do not directly concern Her Eminence and needn't come to her attention. She already has enough responsibilities for three women."

Sans couldn't argue with that, but he could and did tell the guy, "Hell with you. I'm not interested in anythin' ya have to say."

The doctor shrugged. "Very well. I will only ask you to listen to one word." He reached into his robe and retrieved the end of a very long, thin golden chain hanging from his neck, twisted the chain once around his finger, and pulled—

His face blurred and his hand melted, the flesh sliding off like warm wax. Beneath his pale human features was a long, bone-white, masklike face with black slashes above and beneath his hollow eyes, lipless mouth curving into a grin. His now-bony hand rose in greeting, chain twined around his phalange, its end dangling through the hole in his palm. "Boo," whispered the skeleton.

The door to Frisk's dressing room cracked open. "Shall I wait for you two, Dr. Serif?" she called. "Or will you keep Sans here and deprive him of another hour in church?"

The doctor dropped the chain and was human again. "Indeed, my lady," he said. "I am sorry to disappoint our visitor, and those who will come to see him for themselves, but I understand that monsters employ methods of collecting magical energy that would benefit us greatly. I wish to hear it from the horse's mouth."

"That's probably for the best. He's told me the basics, but I'm not an expert in metallurgy or alchemy, so I'm afraid most of it is over my head." Frisk closed the door behind her, settling her veil in place. "If nothing else, Sans can have a break from me. I think we've been getting along fairly well, but he's probably tired of being lectured." She paused by the edge of the worktable, where Sans was frozen in place. "Well, Sans? Shall I get out of your hair now?"

He was still reeling from what he'd seen, and only vaguely aware that he had to say something leaving-related. "Yeah, bye," he muttered.

He didn't see her start, or how her head ducked as she turned and left. The moment the doors closed, the royal sorcerer removed the chain from around his neck, setting it on the table and scowling at Sans like a disappointed teacher. "You realize you've hurt her feelings very much?" The slashes above and below his right and left sockets creased in disapproval. "No. You don't, do you."

"Well, you're hurting my fuckin' brain, ya—ow!"

Something had immediately smacked Sans in the back of the skull. He whipped around to see a disembodied hand hovering in the air, wagging a skeletal finger in disapproval before it vanished. "I will not tolerate rudeness," the doctor said severely. "Is that clear, young skeleton?"

The boss monster felt as if someone had pulled the floor out from beneath him. "Yeah, I guess so. That's about the only thing I do get right now."

"Understandable. I will begin by asking this, Sans: do you recognize me?"

That was a good question. The longer Sans looked at him, the less certain he was. "You...honestly, it feels like I used ta have nightmares with you in 'em, but I've had so many others since then that ya can't keep up. Competition's pretty stiff in here." He tapped his skull.

The doctor chuckled. "I see. Does the name 'W. D. Gaster' sound familiar?"

Sans flinched, and he didn't know why. He just knew that he wanted to open his head up and scrub the insides till the name was gone. "Not...really," he managed. "'Zat you?"

"More or less." Gaster half turned in his chair and snapped his fingers. Two more hands appeared at the windows, unlatching them and pushing them open to let the chill morning air stream in. "This is an informal meeting, principally to get acquainted again. We can start with this." He picked up the golden chain and held it out for Sans' inspection. "To the best of my knowledge – and I pride myself on thoroughness – there are no similar devices in use by any other monster in this kingdom. You should not be surprised in this fashion again."

"I sure fu—flippin' hope not," Sans remarked. "Whaddya mean, 'get acquainted again'?"

"Ah, you caught that. Well done." Gaster's mouth curved again. "We've met before, but you were so young that I'm not surprised you don't remember. The next question: would you like to have a device of your own, and the ability to appear human?"

Sans prided himself on not being dumb, but this was way too much, too fast. Gaster must have seen it in his expression, because he raised his palmless hands in a conciliatory gesture. "My apologies. I have been looking forward to this meeting for a long, long time, and I may be overly enthusiastic. I'll ask an easier question—did you kill the man found in the gardens yesterday?"

The boss monster put a hand to his skull, as if he could manually collect his thoughts. "The guy jumped. Didn't the King tell ya?"

"His Majesty told me what he was told, yes. Did Her Eminence see the assassin jump rather than give himself up, or did you throw him out the window after you squeezed him eighty-percent to death?" Gaster raised a finger as Sans started to protest. "Don't waste my time or yours, boy. The gentleman may have landed in an unhealthy fashion, but that does not explain the uniformly horizontal bruising across his front and back, or how he struck face-first and still managed to crack most of his thoracic vertebrae. His injuries were consistent with a very large hand doing a very large amount of damage before his fall."

Sans wasn't sorry, and he saw no reason to either lie or volunteer more information. He stared at Gaster, daring him to say anything more, and the royal sorcerer shook his head. "No, I will not judge you for taking drastic measures to save the High Priestess. The man was carrying three large knives and two empty sheaths, which suggests he was very serious in his purpose. Nor do I intend to trouble His Majesty or Frisk with this information, unless perhaps I find out that you crushed the man to pulp right in front of her."

"Hell, no, I didn't," Sans snapped. "Ya think I wanted her ta feel any more messed up than she already was? I didn't even let the f—the guy scream on the way down. She didn't hear anything, an' she didn't see anythin' after I got him outta the room." He drummed his fingertips on his femur. "And don't use her name. 's weird."

Gaster's brow twitched. "That answers that. Thank you."

The boss monster felt like something had gone over his head, and he was about to demand more information when Gaster raised his finger again. "One moment. Do you hear that?"

Very faint choir music was coming through the open windows. "Yeah, I know," Sans said impatiently. "When they get sick of talkin', they do that instead. It all sucks."

"Not necessarily," murmured the doctor. "This particular hymn includes a solo, and with the King in attendance, they'll use their best performer. Listen."

Sans didn't get it till the hymn faded to almost nothing and it seemed as if the song was over. He was thinking of his next question when a single voice rose through the stillness and his head turned of its own volition. His feet made him get up and cram one shoulder out the window to follow the sound, heedless of the floor creaking underfoot.

Sure enough, it was a lone woman singing. The words were indistinct, but the sound sent prickles running over his skull and down his spine; her high notes were perfect, and while he could barely hear the lower tones, they were somehow even better. When the last note died away, he wanted to jump out and yell for whoever it was to keep going.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Gaster was leaning on the other window, arms folded on the sill, head propped up on a spare hand. "I've missed hearing her in the mornings."

Sans hurriedly scratched the corners of his sockets, which somehow felt itchy. "Yeah, I guess s'not bad for a human," he said, trying to sound careless, though he couldn't help adding, "Kinda wasted in a church."

The doctor chuckled again, stepping away from the windowsill. "An increasingly common opinion, as you are doubtless aware by now."

Before Sans could ask what the hell that meant, Gaster glanced meaningfully at the boss monster's face and hand. Sans followed his gaze and saw why: his phalanges were stained bright red. "Wha..." Had he hurt himself? Sans grabbed the corner of his sleeve and swiped at his eyes, pulling it away to reveal more streaks of red. "What the crap is this?"

Gaster was very quiet. Then he reached into his robe and produced a folded white square. "Here," he said. Sans looked at it blankly. "It's a handkerchief, my boy," the doctor explained. "For drying tears."

The walk back to her rooms after the service was more irritating than usual. Frisk was thirsty, her calf was beginning to cramp from walking at the four guards' pace, and there was no one to talk to—just like old times, she thought with a twinge of dismay. She was reconsidering the merits of Sans' magic when they reached the double doors and she could all but run inside.

"Greetings, my lady," said Dr. Serif, raising his head from a series of drawings scattered across the worktable. There were tiny words and numbers scribbled all over, and even at a glance, the notations were beyond her. "If you'll allow us a moment, we'll clear the table. Breakfast should be here any moment."

"Thank you," she said. "I'll be out as soon as I extricate myself." Dr. Serif gave his odd half-smile, while Sans didn't so much as look up.

Well, at least changing into a looser dress made her feel better, as did kicking off her slippers and enjoying the strange walking-in-pits feeling of removing heeled shoes. Technically, she knew she should keep her veil on, but the prospect made her want to eat the damn thing. It wasn't as if the royal sorcerer was going to tell on her, and she almost never wore it around Sans anymore—not that he cared either way.

...Good Lord. When was the last time she'd felt this crabby? He must be rubbing off on me, she thought wryly.

Dr. Serif had poured a tall glass of water for her. Frisk came out, seized it from his hand, and drank the whole thing at once, setting it down with a bang and a sigh. "Thank you very much, Doctor."

"I had a suspicion you wouldn't be allowed time to care for yourself after the service," he remarked. Sans was still looking at a sheet of paper, at least until the doctor plucked it out of his hand and set it on a stack of notes. "I hear something in the hall. Sans?"

The skeleton grumbled, but got up to open the doors as Frisk sat by the doctor. "It looks as though you've made some progress. In your opinion, are these ideas practiceable?"

"I believe so, yes," he replied. "Based on what Sans has told me, we could possibly convert some of our existing infrastructure for this purpose. We will need more detailed specifications, but I thank you for allowing me to borrow Sans and attain a starting point."

"And thank you for giving him a break," she said, drawing on all of her training to keep from sounding petulant.

It must not have worked, because the doctor sighed. "That was a very natural misunderstanding on your part, my lady. He and I had words while you were getting dressed, and it distracted him. I doubt that he genuinely wanted you gone. In fact, he's been checking the clock every ten minutes since you left."

Frisk felt herself flushing. "I didn't—"

"Watch out," said Sans, and as they sat back, the dishes flew off the trolley in a burst of red magic, settling neatly onto the table. "There. What's this about me 'n the clock?"

"Nothing whatsoever," the doctor said genially. "Her Eminence is back, by the way."

Sans glowered at him, and glanced at Frisk for the first time since she'd come in. "Yep. You can go now, Doc." He made a shooing gesture, then came back to the table, pulled over a random dish, and began shoveling the food in.

Dr. Serif looked ready to hit the skeleton upside the head. "You were marvelous, as always, Your Eminence," he said loudly. "It's been a long time since you performed at matins, hasn't it?"

Frisk paused mid-stab, rearranging her tomato slices into an angrier pattern. "You can hear the chapel from all the way up here?" Stab. "Would you like something to eat, Doctor?"

"Nothing for me, thank you. On a clear day with little wind, yes, the sound carries quite far."

The priestess couldn't help grimacing. "That's good to know." She got up for another drink. "I had to chat with His Majesty and Gaius for almost twenty minutes after the service. My throat is killing me," she said over her shoulder.

When Frisk turned around, Dr. Serif was not looking at her, but at Sans, who had slowly raised his head. "Hold on a sec," the skeleton said. He shifted to face her. "That was you?"

His obvious disbelief made her want to dunk her head in the water pitcher, and perhaps also throw it at him. "I...yes? It was my turn to take that solo," she said to her plate, and crammed a wad of egg into her mouth.

"Your turn, indeed." Dr. Serif raised his eyebrows at Sans. "Her Eminence is aggressively modest about her vocal talent. You won't hear her again until the Feast of All Souls in three days, and she will do her best to get out of it."

Frisk swallowed, coughed, and said sharply, "Doctor, please." What was he doing?

"Forgive me, my lady." He rested his head on his hand, dark eyes studying her. "Speaking of All Souls Day, I've discussed the matter with Sans in his capacity as your personal guard, but I also wanted to give you a direct word of caution. We may need to employ unorthodox methods to ensure your safety, as you will have an unavoidably public role in the ceremony. Will you agree to comply with whatever measures we may deem necessary?"

That sounded ominous, but Frisk had already been trying not to think of the upcoming holy day, or the dead assassin, or how the prospect of being murdered was no longer an abstract concept. "I'll leave it to you and Sans, Doctor. Thank you for your concern."

"Of course, Your Eminence. Now, with your permission, I'd like to briefly review what you've taught Sans thus far. St. Brigid's is unparalleled in its instructional quality, so I have no doubt as to your knowledge or capability. However—"

Sans banged his empty plate onto a tray, startling them both. "Thanks, Doc. Go away."

"Sans!" the priestess snapped. "What's gotten into you? Do I have to send you to your room?"

Dr. Serif raised his hands good-naturedly and got to his feet. "All right, you can have her to yourself again. But I would like to consult with both of you at least once every day. May I come here in the morning, or is the afternoon more convenient?"

"Either is fine now that I'm excused from most of the services," Frisk answered. She pinned Sans with a glare. "Do you have a preference?"

The skeleton grumble-shrugged. "Splendid," said Dr. Serif. "I will see you tomorrow morning after breakfast, then." He bowed slightly. "My lady."

Frisk rose to walk him out of the room and into the hall. To her surprise, Dr. Serif gestured for the guard to move away, and when the man was out of earshot, the royal sorcerer lowered his voice. "Forgive my asking, but when you spoke with the King, what did he say about Sans?"

The priestess crossed her arms at the waist, and uncrossed them. "He asked how Sans was behaving towards me. I told him I'm not in any danger, but I don't know if he believes it."

To her shock, the doctor laughed. "That was not what he meant, Your Eminence," he said. "I fully agree that Sans bears you no ill will. However, surely you have noticed that he is...we'll say, potentially unstable? I checked the potions you've recently made, and didn't sense his magic in any of them. Have you allowed him to infuse anything yet?"

At this point, Frisk couldn't even try to keep her emotions off her face. If nothing else, she thought bitterly, it'd save time.

"I see. Those who witnessed your initial encounter with him said you stopped him in his full attack without violence. I hate to put responsibility for his actions on your shoulders," the doctor continued, "but as you know, Sans is much too powerful to be allowed to lose control of himself again. There can be no peace between humans and monsters if your emissary destroys any human life or property while he is here, or if he evens frightens anyone too much."

"No, of course not." Frisk shifted her bare feet on the marble floor. "He's being difficult today, but as I said – or at least, I thought – we've been working together well enough. He's an excellent student, and he has a sense of humor. I'm certainly not afraid of him anymore."

"Hmm." The doctor was plainly skeptical. "You don't feel threatened by having such a large monster in your living space? Does he seem apprehensive about your barriers?"

"As a matter of fact, I trust him enough now to have taken down several of them. When I created one so that we could talk privately with the King, he handled it fairly well."

The doctor's eyes grew very wide. "You kept him inside a barrier, and he tolerated it?"

"I...told him it was all right, and I made a bad pun. It seemed to work."

For some reason, Dr. Serif muttered something curse-like under his breath, then said, "I beg your pardon, my lady, but that is extraordinary, especially considering he's been under your care for only a week. Monsters are absolutely terrified of barriers, no matter their size or strength, and he knows firsthand that he cannot break yours. Whatever you are doing to foster trust between you, by all means, continue to do so." He turned as if to go, and paused. "One more thing, Your Eminence. Has he told you how he became a boss monster? There should be none but their King and Queen."

Frisk shook her head. "I tried to ask about it, and he got upset."

"Indeed. Thank you very much for your time. I will see you tomorrow." He strode off down the hall, allowing the guard to return to his post.

Any hope of Sans behaving better with the doctor gone was dashed the moment she came back in. "How come ya don't like singin'?" The skeleton sounded almost accusing. "If I could do that, I'd never shut up."

"That's none of your business." The priestess busied herself collecting dirty dishes and loading them up.

Another cloud of red lifted the trays out of her hands and dumped them back on the trolley with an unholy clatter. The doors opened, the trolley rolled itself out to the hall, and the doors creaked shut. "There, all done. So does it take a lotta magic or somethin'? I noticed ya don't make as much noise around here now that there's not as many barriers ta keep up."

Noise? "Drop it, Sans. I'm not going to ask you again," she warned, coming to sit across from him.

Pause. Frisk could actually see him think about it and then decide to keep right on going. "I didn't think you were the shy type. Yer willin' t'stand up in front of a zillion people and tell 'em not to be scared of the big bad skeleton, you got me right where ya want me, and ya talk to th' most important guys in the kingdom like it's nothin', so how're—"

That did it. She was so furious that she had to fight the urge to throw a barrier in his face. Instead, she inhaled, stuck her thumb and forefinger in her mouth, and gave an ear-splitting whistle.

And that was how Frisk learned an interesting fact about skeletons: they didn't have ears, but when faced with a completely unexpected and shrill sound – not just being shouted at – they still instinctively tried to cover the sides of their head, and at least one of them also yelled, "What the fuckin' crap was that for?!"

"First, watch your language, and second, it was for being a giant hypocrite! I haven't made you tell me how you're a boss monster, and when I want you to stop asking me a personal question, I expect the same courtesy!"

"Are you seriously comparin' my life bein' ruined with yer stupid 'Wahh, I'm a perfect fairy-tale princess, don't listen to me'?"

"This is not a contest! I know what I've experienced and how I feel about it, and it has nothing to do with you!" She slammed her palms on the table, standing up so that she didn't have to keep craning her neck to look at him. "We may be familiar with one another by now, but that does not give you the right to say whatever you want to me! Do you understand?"

Sans was still rubbing his skull. "Not like it matters," he muttered. "Yer the boss, right?"

"Oh, please! Haven't you ever had a friend before, Sans? A real one? Have you ever learned to treat someone with basic respect?"

"Not a damn human!" The skeleton also sprang to his feet, towering over her with eyes aflame. "Excuse me if I hurt your widdle feewings askin' a stupid-ass question!"

"You hurt my feelings because you showed me that you don't care about them! Don't you dare blame this on my being human, Sans! You're wrong, and you damn well know it!"

He snarled, lowering his head until his jagged teeth and the blinding orange-red of his eyes were less than a foot from hers. The effect was terrifying, but Frisk was too angry to remember the doctor's warning about letting the boss monster lose control; the only thing that mattered was standing her ground. "Don't you give me that look!" He wanted to win by being bigger, did he? Frisk put one foot on her chair, stepped onto the table, and, as Sans blinked in confusion, reached down to jab a finger into his sternum. "What are you going to do? Bully me until I'm as afraid of you as every other human you've met? Think of another plan, because that's not going to work!"

The ferocious light went out like a candle. For just a moment, Sans looked as though a tree had sprouted in front of him full-grown and then fallen on his head. He stepped back, mumbled, "'Kay," and went into the bedroom, shutting the door.

Frisk stood in the middle of the table, her pulse racing, not sure whether to cry or step down and then cry. She swallowed several times, but it didn't help.

Damn him. The bedroom was an upset woman's native habitat, and he had stolen it. There was the couch, but it wasn't the same. Besides, even if she understood on a grown-up level that the assassin was gone, she was still afraid to open the office door without Sans there.

At a loss, Frisk sat on the edge of the table, letting her feet dangle as she surveyed her domain. The room had gotten even messier in the past week. If Sans had the power to put dishes away instantaneously, he'd have enough to put all these books and papers away for her, too. Maybe she could make him organize her proposals while he was at it.

Proposals. For the thousandth time, Frisk wondered if it was time to stop ignoring them and start making a list of men she might actually consider accepting. She hadn't told Sans how few positions in the Church were suitable for her current rank, or that the likeliest ones were all lifetime commitments, a fate more lonely and boring than death. She'd been so scared but so excited to become High Priestess, where she'd do so much good and be known and loved by so many people; no one had reminded her that being up on a pedestal meant being utterly alone, not to mention exposed to anyone below who wanted to push her off.

Maybe that was why she had imagined her resident boss monster being smitten with her, why she'd been so hurt by him trying to escape, and why she felt so awful now. Frisk knew he had no social skills whatsoever, and he'd probably thought he was complimenting her in some backhanded, childish fashion, but leave it to Sans to turn being "perfect" into an insult.

No, the choice between the Church and marriage wasn't much of a choice at all. She was very tired of her pedestal, and she wasn't going to trade it for one so high that she couldn't come down again. If she chose the right husband, she could do as much or more for people in need than she already was, and she wouldn't be doing it alone. Even if she and her future spouse were well-to-do and had busy schedules, she'd have company in the evenings, not to mention nights and mornings in bed, which there was no shame in looking forward to! Then there'd be children, a family of her own...

Frisk sighed, massaging her neck and turning it toward the window, then the door. For the briefest and most frustrated of moments, she contemplated sending the skeleton back to the Underground now, perhaps tomorrow morning. He'd learned enough and given the royal sorcerer enough information; surely she could get rid of him in good conscience, and he wouldn't have the chance to hurt her ag—

The child from her nightmares was sitting inches away from her on the edge of the table. It was smiling, eyes shining red, kitchen knife in hand and all its little teeth bared.

Every hair on Frisk's body stood straight up, and her breath came quick and shallow. She tried to push herself off the table, to yell at it to go away, but her muscles were locked in place. All she could do was watch as the child lifted the knife, pointing it straight at the bedroom door, eyes never leaving hers. The child slowly lowered the knife, turned the blade around in its hands, and held the handle out to her.

Frisk's hand twitched. A tiny part of her knew that if she tried, if she really wanted to, she could move enough to grab the knife. But...why?

Something bubbled up in the back of her mind, whispering that even a boss monster was no match for a determined human. She knew exactly what to do: shuffle into the room with her head down and her hands behind her back, creep in close to tell Sans how sorry she was, and bring him down in one swift crimson slash. It'd be so easy!

The child was still smiling, still holding out the knife. Frisk moved her hand, raising it slowly, and the child's grin somehow widened.

Frisk leaned forward. She reached up, and with every shred of determination she possessed, she turned her hand toward herself, jammed her fingers in her mouth, and whistled as hard as she could. The child only had time for one furious glare before it vanished.

The bedroom door banged open. "What the hell d'ya want now?" demanded the skeleton, stepping into the workroom. "I'm not a damn dog! If ya need something, just...oh, shit—" Sans dropped to one knee next to where she'd crumpled onto the floor, shaking, her hand pressed to her mouth. "Frisk! Hey!" He reached for her shoulder, thought better of it, and looked around, as if for help. "Come on, Frisk! Look, I'm sorry, a'right? I know, I shoulda listened to you! I'll shut up next time ya tell me, I swear! Just knock it off!"

Frisk shook her head, tried to speak, and couldn't suppress a sob. Sans considered her from a couple different angles, said, "Incoming," then carefully scooped her up and walked into the bedroom, setting her down on the edge of the bed and sitting on the floor. "I'm sorry," he said again, wincing as she turned her back to him and curled up with her face buried in the pillow. "'m sorry, okay? You were right. I wasn't thinkin' of how ya felt, just bein' a nosy prick. I really don't want ya to be scared of me. Ya don't hafta tell me anythin' if you don't want, I just..."

Something in his tone made her wipe one eye and raise her head far enough to look at him. He was staring at the bedpost. "'s not an excuse for how I acted, but..." Sans shrugged helplessly. "I really, really wish you liked ta sing."

Silence. Then, to his abject horror, Frisk clutched the pillow and began wailing incoherently into it, sobbing in earnest.

"Aw, fuck! I mean—Frisk—" The skeleton opened his mouth and shut it several times. He stood up, paced out of the room and back again, and sat down as the noise continued. "What'd I do now?!"

No answer. Sans tried to think of something, anything to make her stop. "Uh...can I get ya anything?" he asked lamely.

She quieted long enough to shake her head and kept right on crying. Sans scratched the back of his skull, glancing at the windows – still too small to jump out – and finally, against his better judgment, sat on the edge of the bed. "Hey. Ya know that explosion that killed all those people? Asriel, Chara, a bunch of humans, couple'a monsters?"

That got her attention. Frisk sat up, scrubbing her eyes on her sleeve. "What?" A protracted sniffle. "What about it?"

"That day, me 'n Papyrus came to the gala with Kris, and we were way at the back. For some reason, Kris took off into the crowd, an' I was smaller than Pap, so I went after the little bugger." Sans looked at his massive hand. "Next thing I knew, there was this big damn flash of light and I got knocked down. I don't know what happened after that—it hurt like hell, but I was thinkin' of Pap and wondering where Kris was, and then I woke up in the lab."

Frisk sniffled, but she was listening. Sans clicked his phalanges on the bedpost. "The best explanation Alphys and I came up with was that I was determined ta stay alive, but a monster's body can't handle too much determination. I mean, if we feel a lot of it, we literally melt like butter. Al's not sure if I held together because I absorbed little bits of human SOUL as they died, or if I somehow converted some of the ambient magic, or what. Nothin' really makes sense. It sure didn't happen to anyone else who was there. But me? I was on the way to becomin' my bee-yootiful new self." He gestured grandly, back still to her. "The end."

The priestess scooted closer, pillow tucked under one arm. "You said it ruined your life?"

"Hell yes, it did. I got too big to fit in my own damn house! I have to take a shortcut into the living room because I can't fit through the friggin' door!" Sans kicked at nothing. "The other monsters are scared of me 'cause I keep losin' my temper 'n I look scary as hell, Asgore treats me like I'm tryin' to take Toriel from 'im when all I wanna do is tell jokes with someone...oh, and ya know what?" He shifted around to nearly face her. "Remember what I said about monsters havin' kids with magic, and how it's always a pain in the butt?" She nodded, wiping her eyes again. "Well, lucky me, I'm too strong t'even try it. If I was a lady boss monster, I could handle someone else's magic and make a little Sans, no problem, but no. If I tried givin' anyone enough to get the job done, there's no guarantee I wouldn't overdo it and kill 'er." Shrug. "Boss monsters are supposed t'have kids with each other so they can transfer their life force and age naturally as the kid gets older. I'm just gonna live forever as a damn freak."

"You're not a freak. You're Sans." Frisk gave an unlovely snrk. "Thank you for telling me this, but you know you didn't have to."

"Yeah, I know." The skeleton turned around the rest of the way, crossing his legs on the bed. "I'm not tryin' to trade it for your pers'nal business, either."

She smiled a little, and his SOUL lifted a little higher. "My story's not nearly that interesting. My mother said something very cruel the first time I sang for her as a child, and no matter how many people since then have told me how wonderful I sound, there's no getting rid of that feeling that they're all wrong. That's all."

"Yikes. I wouldn't say it's 'all,' not if you were a kid an' you were trusting your own damn mom to not be an asshole. That crap really hurts. I shouldn'a said it was stupid."

"Agreed, but I accept your apology." Frisk sighed, tucking the pillow under her chin to rest her head on it. "I've been feeling sorry for myself because being High Priestess is so isolating, but at least I can get out of it. Isn't there anything you can do?"

"Nope! I can't get hitched and stop bein' a boss monster. We've tried a bunch of different things, and it's irreversible. We can't exactly replicate the accident to make me a lady friend, either."

"No..." The priestess yawned. "No, I expect not. I'm sorry."

"Not yet fault. Not anyone's, so far as we know."

Frisk curled up on her side with a sigh, facing him this time, cuddling the pillow. "I'm glad we had this talk, but I suppose we should get to work soon."

Sans had never wanted to be a pillow so badly. "Isn't it Sunday? Why not take the day off? I vote for a nap and then a game of chess or something."

"Mm." The priestess frowned at a rip in the silken bedsheet, probably caused from his toe catching it. "You know how to play chess?"

"Nope. You can teach me."

Frisk chuckled. "It's a deal." She couldn't help yawning again. "All right, you win. Escort me to my office, please, and I'll get to work on that nap. It's been about a year since I had one."

The boss monster paused, and said, "I feel bad takin' this thing up when yer crashin' on the couch like a houseguest. You take it. There's a lotta floor space fer me out there."

The priestess looked over the huge expanse of mattress, remembering the child and the knife, wondering when she'd feel safe again. On impulse, she hopped over the foot of the bed, landing in front of a cedar chest under the windows and opening it to rummage through the blankets. "I'm fine," Sans informed her. "It takes bein' out in the snow for a while 'fore I get cold."

"It's not for you," Frisk said cheerfully. "Come with me for a moment."

Bemused, the boss monster followed her to the office and the couch. At her instruction, he held out his arms for her to fill up with cushions. Then it was back to the bedroom, where she made him place the cushions on the side of the bed away from the door, holding them up so she could throw a large quilt over them. "There we are! You, sir, are sleeping on the bed. I am sleeping in a pillow fort. There's no impropriety whatsoever."

Sans had so many objections that they all tried to get out his mouth at once. By the time he could say, "I don' think that'd hold up in court," Frisk had already disappeared into her fort.

The mattress was not only wide, but so plush that he could have jumped on the bed without disturbing her arrangement. The skeleton tapped the light off, then lay down in his usual spot near the middle of the bed. He couldn't stretch his arm on that side now, but otherwise, there was still plenty of room. When she sniffled again – in a residual kind of way – Sans remembered the handkerchief, and wished he hadn't used so much of it. It was her fault, having that kind of voice out of nowhere.

Silence settled over them, but it was a comfortable one. Sans closed his eyes, tried to think of something else to say, and decided not to bother: judging by her breathing, Frisk was already asleep.

#songfell #it was actually a viral pneumonia

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leam1983 · 4 years ago

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Cyberpunk 2077 Thoughts

Having perused Dark Horse Books’ The World of Cyberpunk 2077 over the past few days, I’ve gotten a better feel for the various basic hooks that structure V’s inception as a protagonist. The short of it is the Polish wizards are on the right path to nailing Pondsmith’s treatment the same way they nailed Sapkowski’s works.

Consider the following as half a brain dump, half a series of prospective spoilers, and also half projection, so either skip this, find some other entry to read, or come back to this come late November.

I know I mentioned three halves, but it’s late and I don’t give a shit.

I’m serious - DO NOT PRESS ON IF YOU’RE THE TYPE TO BLOW A GASKET IF YOU’RE INADVERTANTLY SPOILED.

The latest Night City Wire as of August exposed three incipient “life paths”, or starting branches of V’s path. I’ll tackle my personal narrative approaches to them in the order of my choosing.

Nomads: CP2077 is set in a world where much of what we understand to define a family has been blown up, tossed around by climate change and nuclear fire and then stitched back together using grit, resourcefulness and the last dying embers of human decency. Nomads are less a group of people defined by blood relations and more a cadre of individuals that share something more significant than mere genes. It might be a common history, a set of shared hardships, a yen for similar automotive and engineering-related projects - whatever it is, that something pulls people together in ways Corpo rats and street kids will never experience.

This seems to define even the average Nomad’s degree of education. Surprisingly, Nomads are the most well-read group in Coronado Bay’s greater area, some caravans reportedly including entire RVs packed with books. Nomads generationally elect teachers and record-keepers and seem to care for those cultural remnants of the old world, before Pondsmith’s paranoid alternate sixties kicked off more than a century’s worth of technological progression and rampant dehumanization. To a Night City native, a Nomad’s speech patterns appear precious and uselessly florid, while they might appear almost normal to us - maybe slightly touched by the fact that Grandpa Joe or whatever really wanted you to have your Greek classics down before you were old enough to repair your first CH00H2 carburetor on your own.

That new, mega-clustered version of family matters immensely to the Nomads. You identify to yours the same way Orcs in Shadow of War might refer to their clan, or the same way a Scottish clan might design specific visual cues identifying its members. In normal circumstances, Nomads live, thrive and die in service to the clan - and the opening segment for V’s Nomad origins suggests that something happened to his clan. They’re gone, or so the narration says, without going into further detail. Is V responsible? We don’t currently know. As it stands, however, he is a lone Nomad in a clan of one, and soon finds himself pushed out of the Californian wastes and into Night City’s neon-drenched streets.

Seeing this, I considered the narration as an admission of guilt on V’s part. He feels responsible, and hopes that grinding his way to success will in some way atone for what he’s done. Consequently, my Nomad V would be as gruff as could be, but as moral and upstanding as the setting allows. He considers himself as having been invested with an example to set, and would intend to set his sights on more than just filthy lucre. Honest filthy lucre is what matters to him, if that concept even is possible: he might deal in unsavory types and illicit activities, but he always does so with a certain moral rectitude - as a tough and gruff, lean and stringy type you can occasionally catch in his battered Thornton pick-up truck with his feet up on the dashboard and a dog-eared copy of Plato’s Republic in hand. Jackie honestly wonders how he can put up with that Greek pendejo’s endless words and the lack of scrolling animations, while V keeps his Kiroshi optics’ News ticker locked onto grassroots Leftist RSS feeds that stoke a bit of an ignored Rockerboy ethos in him. Quoting Marx in Night City might feel like trying to teach lab rats in the finer points of string theory, but it at least feels genuine to him, compared to the predigested sociopolitical pap Militech, Arasaka and their ilk are more than happy to spew on the airwaves.

There’s a lot to be pissed off about in Richard Night’s failed utopia, a lot of fat cats to gut and buildings to burn. Still, he leaves the glowering act and the churning rage to Johnny Silverhand’s imprinted ghost. Being more of a down-low, gun-toting choomba than a classic Street Samurai, Vincent “V” Carson thinks first and strikes second.

Vinnie isn’t much for electric guitars and anarchy in the UK, much less in the Free State of Southern California; but he does love the occasional Leonard Cohen ballad or the occasional shot of Johnny Cash’s melancholy. Having picked up something of a Northern Texas drawl while cruising, he might feel like Harry Dresden’s Good Ol’ Boy cousin, magic tricks here pushed aside in favor of a measure of dermal plating and a good ol’ fashioned twelve-gauge and revolver combo. Not being much of a techno-fetishist, he considers his optics and his skull jack as being begrudging concessions to an era that looks down on fully “ganic” types. Having grown up with TV serials and the occasional visor-based Braindance all depicting cyberpsychosis as something vile that utterly dehumanizes its sufferers, he’s naturally wary around anyone who seems a little too giddy with the prospect of taking a few scalpels to perfectly decent muscles and bones.

His Thornton is where most of his Eddies go, and yes, he’s named his truck Suzie. Suzie’s done right by him, and he’ll do right by her - unless someone else with a pretty smile and a working moral compass makes him swoon.

Street Kids: if you weren’t taught on the highways or in corporate arcologies, odds are you became a positive blip in an otherwise grim statistic, one of the myriad fucked-up kids raised by other fucked-up kids with more seniority than you. With no roads and paid-for nannies, you survived off of grifts, grit, violence, deceit, smarts and gumption - and that, in its own screwball way, creates its own blood ties. You’re wise by Heywood’s standards - streetwise, that is - and you speak the back-alleys’ lingua franca of threats, insinuation and casual intimidation like no other.

If only Jackie hadn’t fingered that Rayfield, huh? This beaut could’ve been paydirt! Well, at least for a week or so, judging by the fact that hundreds of car thefts are reported across Night City on a daily basis. At least, Dean - who also goes as “V” - got to make a new friend while out in the pokey, and managed to shake a few proverbial trees... They’ve got a short-lease in with Trauma Team’s frequency and could maybe hook themselves up with a sweet finder’s fee for anyone who’s on the verge of death at the hands of the city’s Scavengers...

Little does V know, that’s selling Trauma Team as well as their clients painfully short. Shows of gratitude don’t mean anything if you’re not packing the right social status. He barely remembers his birth parents as it is, and grew up the fifth grubby prospect of one of the Valentinos’ “school clubs” (hence the nickname) - where the points of study refer to the proper observances to be held in Jesus Malaverde’s presence, intensive Chicano and Spanish immersion, as well as the handling of common types of weaponry.

Vincent and Dean would be likely to shoot one another, if placed in the same room. One clings onto nearly-lost value systems, while the other commodifies what can be discarded like so much flesh - only inasmuch as his efforts to pacify his unofficial five or six abuelas force him to forego extensive modifications. His knives and wrist-mounted data port are his main tools of the trade, although Dean keeps his hacking creds along the bare minimum. Why bother, when melting an ATM’s ICE wall and whacking the cops with a baseball bat is all you need? There’s a type of gun for nearly anything else, if someone knows where to look...

Dean has no last name, and is consequently registered as “Dean Smith” in the city’s Census records. That doesn’t suggest, however, that he wouldn’t want to make one for himself. As he’s less focused on the city’s legends than on its kingmakers and pawn-movers, Dexter DeShawn strikes him as someone to emulate, watch and learn from - all with a decent degree of caution.

Being on top matters a little less to him than eventually pulling Heywood’s stings. With a little fear and a lot of persistence, Dean “V.” Smith knows that one day, he won’t go hungry on a weeknight. To that end, he’s certainly a hearty eater, here paired with extensive free-weight training regimens and the use of anabolic stimulants. Oh, sure, he’ll speak of family and blood like the best soldier festooned in Santa Muerte visual codices, but his friend Jackie’s got a mind like a slow and steady steel trap.

Either Dean blows his new fellow Street Samurai out of the pond, or he does. Unlike Jackie, however, Dean isn’t realistic about it. Friendships are a rare gift in Heywood, if not the rest of Night City, and Dean’s convinced that Jackie could conceivably look past his final betrayal.

Corpo: nowadays, we’re mostly familiar with the idea of one-percenters creating a bubble of affluence for themselves. Boarding schools, private villas, prebooked vacations across the globe’s priciest spots, access to the hottest trends on the minute of their inception - what this tends to forego is the level of social disconnect that’s required in order to stay relevant. We’re only just waking up to the consequences of letting an aging, crusty first-generation Yuppie be crowned the ruler of the free world, and even someone who’s behind on their Bret Easton Ellis could tell you that Donald J. Trump is a sociopath and a narcissist.

Take that mindset, and cultivate it into an ethos that’s taught to children from a very early age - children who live, eat, shit and breathe in accordance with their parent corporation’s tenets. The more placid, mid-tier lifers in the genre are called sararimen, in reference to William Gibson’s use of the term to designate low-level company workers in Chiba City. A bit like Shenzhen’s factory workers and execs, everything in a corpo’s life is in service to the corporation.

In Night City, as of 2077, two major players have installed this culture of total obedience in their roster. Their names are Militech and Arasaka. One is a juggernaut in the field of military-grade personal defence, the other has a wider grasp and reach, but is more fragile. Arasaka owes that fragility to the last fifty years having involved its re-establishment and reconstruction. Fifty years ago, Night City’s Corpo Plaza was blasted open by a thermonuclear discharge that sent the Japanese giant packing. The charges had been set by three Edgerunners: Rogue, Morgan Blackhand and Johnny Silverhand - accessorily a well-respected Rockerboy and front-line member of the band SAMURAI. Only Rogue survived that fateful night, or so the street lingo goes, having gone on to start a legitimate consultation business as well as a fruitful career in the hospitality business. Her bar, the Afterlife, is Night City’s hotspot for every techie, script kiddie and accomplished cyber-spelunker.

Our gal Vivian knows this. She knows this, because Vivian “V.” Banks lives two lives.

In one of them, she’s a lean and hungry Junior Executive in Arasaka’s Counter-Intel division. In that line of work, you either fuck someone’s prospects or protect your own, or ensure that no up-and-comer just out of the company’s Law School program manages to push you off the board. She knows full well that in centuries past, corpo-speak was made up of mild euphemisms that at best referred to destroying a rival’s prospects or lifelihood. Taking a life was something that required careful deliberation, especially when tossing a fat severance bonus into an aging CFO’s three-piece pockets and letting your erstwhile rival snort cocaine off of the rolling hips of Tahitian dancers was so much cheaper...

Nowadays, zeroing someone is commonplace.

You’re born for Arasaka, and chances are you’ll die for Arasaka just the same. Viv’s killed, lied, cheated and even stole her way to her position, remorse being this vaguely churning sense of coldness in her gut that keeps one-night stands coming in and out of her bedroom. She only remembers her parents as being credit-chip enablers and personal enhancement drug addicts, cutting ties with them so completely on the day of her official hiring that it felt more like a tacit understanding.

On most days, sex and booze keep the cold at bay. On most days, Vivian Banks is a class-act of a sociopath. The stronger she gets, however, and the more paranoid her targets become - which reinforces her own paranoia. Before long, playing the part of one of Arasaka’s several poisonous flowers won’t work anymore.

Unfortunately, she trusts no-one. No Fixer could put her in contact with any hacker she’d trust, no rando fresh off the street with a retro-tinted National Arms plinker would satisfy her. To climb up the ranks and maybe share tea with Old Man Saburo himself, she needs a spotless performance record. She needs skills.

More importantly, she needs a reputation. That means leaving Arasaka Tower and mingling with the experts in their own field - and it means filling out her back book of successful hits. The drinks at the Afterlife are decent enough, but what she’s after is an official in.

If she can get to Rogue, or maybe even hook up with a ripperdoc not bought and paid for by the company, she might be able to score both new skills and increased performance...

If it were as simple as slitting Janet’s throat in HR and diving her way to an orgiastic performance review quite innocently left on the department’s server, she would’ve done that already. Viv is my obvious Pure Stealth build candidate, my main-line hacker and would-be engineer with a thing for black power skirts and designer offensive augments.

With that said, we’re months ahead of schedule, all the good shit’s already come out, so we’re stuck playing the waiting game...

What are your own character or build ideas for Cyberpunk 2077?

#cyberpunk 2077 #spoilers #build ideas #characters #roleplaying

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yourdeepestfathoms · 5 years ago

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Candy Crush

New AU

———————

“You come here often?”

“Well, I work here, so I’m gonna have to say ‘yes’.”

Anna did her best not to frown when her attempt at flirting completely missed its mark. The girl standing on the other side of the counter is staring at her with the big, deep blue eyes that made Anna fall head over heels in love with her the day she first walked into Sweet Thrills. She tilts her head a little, as if she were a confused puppy, and that simile makes Anna’s heart melt inside of her chest.

“Ma’am?” The worker says, concern growing on her features. “Ma’am, are you alright?” Her voice, toned with an accent Anna believes is Italian, maybe Ukrainian (YES she KNOWS those two are two entirely different accents but with the slight British undertone from life in London, it was hard to put her finger on the exact tone), is as sweet as the drops of honey being sold on one of the counters a few feet away.

The rainbow fairy lights strung up around the sweets shop illuminated this girl’s soft, young features. The glow casts a multi-colored halo over her head, which then spills down the sides of her long, slightly scruffy, but silky-looking black hair. She’s got hands like wolf paws, minus the menacing claws, but the frame of a sun bear- moderately well built and small (Anna has to look down at her, actually). Bangs fall into those jewel-like, haunting blue eyes, swaying with her movements and occasionally falling into the orbs of sapphire that bring out the rest of her pale, but pretty face. Glasses top it all off, balanced on the bridge of her cute little nose.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes,” Anna said quickly, “Yes, I’m fine. Just dozed off a little.”

The worker nodded, smiling softly. It doesn’t really meet her eyes, which Anna notices holds a deep sadness and pain in, but it’s genuine nonetheless.

“Alright,” She said, “Have a good day.”

“You too!”

———

When Anna returns the next day, she smiles at the girl over the counter as if to say, “Yes, I’m here again.”

So, here she is, again. Walking towards the peppermint creams, her devil candy, again. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices the girl take off her glasses and dutifully clean them with her shirt.

She looks very cute without them on.

Soon enough, Anna’s standing in front the counter again, gently placing the peppermint creams in front of the girl to weigh. She’s smiling sheepishly.

The girl grabs the candy, weighing it with an amused eyeroll. She doesn’t think Anna would have caught it, but she does.

“No judgement, miss sweet clerk. A woman needs her snacks.” Is what she ends up saying.

Anna watches as the girl’s head short-circuits, seeming to be simultaneously anxious, embarrassed, and guilty.

“Better than liquor, I guess.” She finally replies, not managing to make direct eye contact with the customer. She’s so awkward- it’s adorable, yet sad at the same time. How could someone be so anxious?

“I suppose you’re very much right.” Anna nods, handing the girl the money to pay for her snack. She watches her fumble with the change before adding, “Keep it.”

“What?” The girl looked up.

“Keep it.” Anna said again.

“A-are you sure? This is a lot of change-”

“Of course,” Anna smiled. She takes the candy, watching the girl stare at her, stunned, “See you later!”

———

Anna returns two days later and is ecstatic to see the pretty girl was working.

When she walks in, said girl smiled and greeted her with the usual phrase workers said to new patrons (not that Anna was new...this was probably her sixth trip to the shop within the month).

After picking out her usual candy, she goes to pay and starts to script what she was about to say to the girl.

“Will that be all?” The girl asked.

“Yeah,” Anna replied.

The girl hums and rings Anna up. After saying their goodbyes...Anna leaves.

Goddamnit.

———

It’s a week later this time. Rain is pelting from the sky, but Anna still makes the journey into the candy store. She thanks the lord when she sees that the cute girl was working, so she didn’t just almost get pneumonia for nothing.

When she walks in, the girl, who appears to be the only one working (and also isn’t wearing her glasses, Anna’s useless gay brain notes), perks up, her eyes widening in alarm and concern. The fact that she seems to be worried over Anna makes Anna’s heart flutter.

“You must really like sweets if you came here in that weather,” The girl said, easing herself back down onto her stool behind the counter. She brushes the papers she was working on aside and stands up to get ready to ring up Anna, who was setting her umbrella by the door.

Not as much as I like you.

“You could say that,” Anna said instead, which her gay brain grumbles at her for. She probably could have ended her miserable pining by saying that. Maybe.

After getting rung up, the girl glanced anxiously over Anna’s shoulder, watching the rain come down harder. Her eyes bulge a little when lightning struck nearby and the sky becomes an uproar of crashing thunder.

“I don’t think it’s safe to go back out there.” She said, “You should stay in here. I’ll go grab you a stool.”

She got up, stumbling for a moment when she must have stepped wrong, pawed for her glasses, put them on, and disappeared into the back of the store. Before she returns, Anna glances at the papers and spiral notebooks stacked beside the cash register and saw notes and work on...she squints at it...murder cases?

Notes on Richard Chase, Jeffrey Dahmer, Harold Shipman, Ed Gein, were scribbled on the pages in great detail about what they’ve done, which included a lot of cannibalism, necrophilia, torture, and even skinning people to make furniture and clothing out of their flesh (god that Ed Gein guy sounds horrible...thank the lord he’s in America! And dead).

When the girl returns and notices that Anna was reading her work, her cheeks blazed so red the blush reached up to her ears. She hunched her shoulders around her neck, clearly embarrassed, and quickly scampered around the counter to put the stool down for Anna before returning to her own seat.

“I-” She tried to say, but couldn’t quite find the words. Her blue eyes cast down, dulling slightly with shame. “You probably think I’m crazy.”

“No, not at all.” Anna said quickly, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snooped.”

“No, it’s okay,” The girl said, “I shouldn’t have left my things lying around in the way.” She nervously rubbed her palms against her pants. “Um- I’m majoring in forensic science in college.” She explained. “That’s- that’s why-”

“Oh!” Anna said, “Oh, that makes sense!” She smiled at the girl, relaxing her slightly. “Do you like it?”

“Totally,” The girl smiled a little, “It’s fascinating! We’re learning EVERYTHING there is to know. Entomology, toxicology, trace evidence, fingerprints, blood splatter analysis, DNA- everything. It’s so,” Her hands flutter as she tries to find the words, “-it’s incredible. There’s a case-” She plucks up her journal and flips through the pages until she comes to a specific one and shows it to Anna. Notes on a case about a dismembered torso is scribbled on the pages. “-on this unidentified torso that was found and the pathologists were able to find out who it was by using the HIP BONE. Nothing else! Isn’t that incredible?”

“Yeah,” Anna agreed.

“Oh- I’m sorry.” She’s blushing again, but this time it’s a shy blush, equally as adorable as the one from before. “I’m babbling.”

“No, no, it’s alright!” Anna said, “You love what you’re learning. That’s great!”

The girl smiled. “What about you? What are you majoring in?”

“Music,” Anna answered. “I don’t have much to say about it, though. Not as much as you.”

The girl giggled and her eyes glitter in a way that makes Anna’s heart thump wildly.

“Sounds fun!” She paused, “You know, I don’t even know your name.”

“Oh, right! I’m Anna.” Anna said, “Anna Cleves. I’m twenty. Moved from Germany to here in London two years ago after high school to go to college.”

“Ah,” The girl nodded. “Germany, huh? Is it nice?”

“Oh yeah,” Anna said fondly, remembering back to her home. “What about you? What’s your name?”

“Elizabeth Blount,” The girl said, “But I go by Bessie.”

“Bessie?”

“Yeah,” She seems a little shy. “I know there’s a lot of other better nicknames I could go by- Eliza, Lizzie, Liz, Beth, Ellie- but, umm...” She rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly, “I really liked cows when I was little. Like- REALLY liked cows. And when I found out that Bessie was a stereotypical name for cows I was like, ‘Oh my god I have to go by that!!’ So I did! And it’s just stuck over time. But you should have seen my mother’s face when I first told her!”

Anna didn’t think she could fall for this woman any further, but that was just proved wrong.

“Oh my god,” She said, “That is absolutely adorable!”

Bessie smiles bashfully. She seems much more relaxed now.

“Really? I thought it was kinda weird.”

“No way!” Anna shook her head, “That’s so cute.”

“Thanks,” Bessie said shyly. “Oh, and I’m nineteen, by the way. I moved here from Italy when I was fourteen.”

So it was an Italian accent she had, then.

Anna nodded and leaned forward, propping her elbows up on the counter. She and Bessie basically began to do icebreakers, sharing things about each other, and by the time the rain slowed enough for Anna to go home safely, they seemed to be the closest of friends.

“It was really nice talking to you, Anna.�� Bessie said. “Will you..” Her shyness returned, “You will come back, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

And Bessie genuinely beamed.

———

Three days later, Anna returned.

When she walked in, she saw that Bessie seemed a little...upset. Her eyes were dull as she stared blankly at the counter, not paying much mind to the customers inside unless they were paying. She was so distracted that she didn’t even notice the woman standing near the display of fudges, calling for her.

“Excuse me!” The woman finally roared, startling Bessie to awareness. Her annoyance didn’t diminish when Bessie turned to her with such a frightened, pitiful expression. “I’ve been waiting for you for TEN MINUTES!”

“I’m sorry,” Bessie whispered, dipping her head low and scampering over. She could definitely feel the prying eyes of the other patron’s burning into her. “I’m very sorry, ma’am.”

“You should pay more attention,” The lady growled. “Stupid girl. What could be so important that you couldn’t do you job?” She scoffs, “I’m sure you were thinking about getting with one of your male coworkers behind the store.”

Bessie paled. She’s paralyzed in her spot, eyes widening.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

Bessie doesn’t answer. Her bottom lip is trembling slightly.

“Of course.” The lady sneers, “I bet you aren’t even wearing an underwear under those pants. So ready to get knocked up, aren’t you? You dirty s-”

“HEY!!”

Anna practically charges the woman, shoving her so hard she stumbled backwards into the display glass for the fudge squares. Her fists are clenched, ready to strike and bust open the head of this middle-aged Karen like a jawbreaker, and her eyes are alight with rage.

“Excuse me!” The woman yelped from being pushed. “What is your-”

“Leave her alone.” Anna seethed, “Don’t fucking talk to her like that, you fucking bitch. You have no right.”

“And you have no right speaking to ME like that!” The woman barked.

“What do you mean? Unlike what you’re spewing, what I’m saying is true.” Anna said, “Get the fuck out. And never talk to her again!”

With a final glare and a huff, the woman storms out. Once she’s gone, Anna releases the breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding and turned around...but Bessie wasn’t there.

Anna looked around, then dared to step behind the counter and go into the employees only section. There, she hears crying and finds Bessie in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet. This sends Anna to her side instantly.

“Oh, Bessie...” Anna murmured, trying her best to not look into the toilet, as she was sure the girl has already exhausted herself by emptying her stomach into it.

Bessie let out a strangled whimper and heaved again. Anna quickly grabs her long black hair and holds it out of the way, rubbing her back comfortingly with her other hand.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Anna murmured, “Just get it out, darling...it’s okay.”

After a moment, Bessie finally pulled back, panting heavily.

“Done?” Anna said softly.

Bessie nodded and flushed the toilet with a shaky hand. She uses her other to press the heel of her palm to one of her eyes, which are spilling out tears.

“I’m sorry,” Bessie whispered, hiccuping softly. “God, I’m- I’m so sorry. This is so gross. I shouldn’t have- You- I-”

Anna’s heart broke at how scared the girl was. Gently, she brushes a lock of hair out of her pale, tear-stained face and had the overwhelming urge to kiss her forehead, but managed to restrain herself from doing so.

“Shh, shh,” Anna hushed her. “It’s alright, darling, I promise. It’s alright.”

Bessie’s ears glow red like licorice when she’s referred to with the pet name. She ducks her head a little, clearly flustered.

“Okay,” She said quietly. “I just- What she said...it...”

“Was horrible.” Anna said for her. “It was horrible, Bessie. She had no right.”

Bessie just shrugged.

“Wanna know why?” Anna said, and Bessie looks up at her a little. “Because,” She cups either sides of her cheeks and lifts her chin so their eyes meet, “You’re a wonderful, beautiful young woman. You aren’t anything she said about you.”

The blush creeps onto Bessie’s cheeks and fresh tears spill down her face. She collapses into Anna’s arms, sobbing into her chest and thanking her over and over again.

Anna holds the weeping girl protectively, rubbing a hand up and down her back and rocking her gently. Right then, she vows to protect Elizabeth Blount. No matter what.

———

Two days later, Anna strides confidently into Sweet Thrills with a present bag dangling from her wrist. However, she deflates when she doesn’t see Bessie. Rather, a woman her age with her brown hair done in space buns is standing behind the counter. She looked as if she spoke in the verbal form of italics all the time.

Anna looks around with a disappointed expression and is about to make her awkward exit (she didn’t buy anything, after all) when she notices the worker at the counter grinning widely. She watches the woman crane her neck around and shout over her shoulder.

“Hey, B!” She called, “Your stalker is here!”

Anna wrinkles her nose, but her expression brightens when she sees Bessie’s pretty little head peek out from the employees only doorway. The girl matches her expression, beaming when their eyes meet, and she’s immediately walking over. The two of them actually hug, and it makes Anna’s heart beat wildly inside of her chest.

“Hey, lovely,” Anna grinned down at her, daring to brush some hair out of Bessie’s pretty eyes. She can’t help but smile even wider when Bessie leans slightly into her touch. “How are you?”

“Better, now that you’re here.” Bessie said, a soft smile curving perfectly on her pink lips, like arcing a Twizzler.

“Awww,” Anna cooed. “You sweetie.” She pokes Bessie’s shoulder, causing her to squirm away with an adorable giggle.

“I’m not the sweets, Anna.” Bessie said.

“You’re right,” Anna nodded knowingly, “You’re sweeter than the sweets.”

Bessie raised a hand to hide her blushing face and to muffle her flustered giggles.

“Reel it in, B,” Comments the worker at the counter.

Anna turned to her, ruffled and slightly defensive, ready to protect the girl at her side if she’s rudely spoken to again. She settles only because Bessie gently touches her arm and looks up at her, her eyes basically saying, “It’s alright. Calm down.”

“This is Anne,” Bessie said, nodding at her coworker. “Anne, this is Anna.”

“So, you’re the mystery girl Bessie has been telling me about.” Anne props her elbows up on the counter, resting her chin in her hands. She squints, “You are pretty.”

That doesn’t make Anna blush, rather just tilt her head.

“What? Not cute when I say it?” Anne shrugs, “Alright.”

“Anne, don’t you have to stock the sweet jars?” Bessie said, punctuating her sentence with a sharp, but pleading arch of her eyebrows.

Anne blinked, then smirks. She titters, stepping back.

“Right,” She said with way too much emphasis. “Just remember: The creams are over there.”

“ANNE!!”

Anne laughed loudly and went to the back to get the candy she was “supposed to restock”.

“I’m sorry about her,” Bessie said quietly, “She’s great, I swear.”

“Great at parties, I bet.” Anna chuckled. “Are you alright? That comment didn’t...” After seeing Bessie puke over just a few words about her being accused of being a slut and not over her gruesome major, Anna was able to put the pieces together that Bessie must have had a sensitivity to sexual subjects. Any reason for it that her brain went to made her stomach twist up.

“Yeah,” Bessie nodded. “It’s- it’s different when Anne does it. She knows not to but sometimes she forgets and I understand that.” She steps back, moving to return to the counter when she notices the gift bag hanging from Anna’s wrist. “What’s that?”

“Oh!” Anna remembered the exact reason she was there and proudly presented the bag to Bessie, who seems shocked. “It’s for you.”

“F-for me?” Bessie stuttered. She notices Anne’s head shoot out from the aisle she was working in, but dismisses it for now.

“Yeah.” Anna smiles widely, “Open it!”

Bessie hesitates, then plucked away the paper sticking out of the bag. What she pulls out is a stuffed cow.

“Her name,” Anna said proudly, “is Elizabeth. Because she really likes humans and when she found out Elizabeth was a human name, she HAD to go by it.”

“That’s why Bessie goes by Bessie!!” Anne cried from her aisle. When Bessie and Anna both look over at her, she yanks her head out of sight and goes back to restocking.

“Anna...” Bessie murmured, staring down at the fuzzy thing’s black and white face.

“Do you like it?” Anna grinned.

Bessie doesn’t say anything.

“You...you don’t like it, do you?” Anna’s grin falls.

She knew she was pushing it. She knew she was stepping too far- how could she do this? Especially after her revelation about Bessie. How could she do this to the poor girl? She’s probably so scared. She probably doesn’t want to speak to her ever-

“I love it.”

Anna’s head popped up in hope.

“You do?”

“Anna, I love it.” Bessie just said again. She cuddles the cow close to her chest, lowering her head to nuzzle her nose into the fur between its ears. She didn’t care how childish it looked. “I love it so much...”

Anna’s grin returned. She pumps her fist in victory and her elbow nearly jabs Bessie when the girl flung herself into her arms.

“Thank you, Anna,” Bessie said, hugging Anna with one arm and the cow- Elizabeth- with the other. “She’s perfect.”

Anna hugged her back tightly, swaying her ever so slightly. She hears Anne go, “awww” from her aisle, but ignores her because Bessie was much more important.

“You’re welcome,” Anna said. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I really, really do,” Bessie said. She pulled back and quickly wiped her eyes.

“Oh- don’t cry.” Anna said, going to thumb away Bessie’s tears as well.

“Sorry,” Bessie laughed slightly. “This is- this is just so nice of you to do for me.”

“Anything for you.” Anna said.

“God, you two are SO CUTE.” Anne yelled from her aisle. When her comment is met with silence, she knows her direction is being stared at without even seeing the unamused eyes, so she adds, “SORRY!”

———

The next time Anna comes in, Anne is working at the counter again. The space bun girl jumped around so fast her hair nearly comes out of their seemingly trademarked buns and yelled, “B!!” Then, Bessie is hurrying out with a small, potted banzai tree in her hands.

“Anna!” Bessie smiled widely.

“Hey, sweets,” Anna smiled back. She casts a curious look at the tree, “Is that a new candy?”

Bessie giggled and lightly swatted at Anna’s arm.

“No, silly!” Bessie said, then held up the awkward, lanky, zig-zagged banzai as if it were the most magnificent tree to ever grow on God’s green earth, “His name is Herman.”

“Herman?” Anna echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. Herman.” Bessie nodded.

Anna raised her hands and sets them on top of Bessie’s so they’re both holding the pot (really, Anna just wants to touch Bessie’s hands- they’re quite a bit smaller than her own and she thinks it’s adorable).

“Do you like him?” Bessie asked, looking up at Anna. Her eyes are holding the cutest expression ever- almost childlike or puppy-like. “He’s our tree. Since you come over so often. We can water him together.”

Oh my god we have a tree together.

“I love him.” Anna said and Bessie beams.

And I love you, They both think.

And Anne’s thoughts mused, GAY!!!

———

It’s late when Anna returns. After closing time, to be exact, but she still parks. She walks to the entrance, finding it open, so she thinks it wouldn’t be a bother to walk in since she was so close to one of the workers.

Speaking of Bessie, the girl is in the far left corner, restocking the American candies. She doesn’t notice Anna, despite the little golden bell that chimes when the door is opened, and Anna is about to say something when she realizes something.

Bessie was singing.

“Girls, we do, whatever it will take

'Cause girls don't want, we don't want our hearts to break in two”

Her singing voice is like smooth, warm caramel, oozing steadily from her lips. Husky, yet warm at the same time, and her accent adds a whole other chilling undertone to the words. It draws Anna in almost instantly- a haunting melody that slithers up her neck like a candied snake and coils in her ears.

“So it's better to be fake, can't risk losing...”

Anna steps quietly over to the counter where Herman is displayed. She notices that his soil isn’t damp, meaning he has yet to be watered that evening, so she plucks up the miniature indigo watering can with red roses on it (when Anna saw it at the grocery store, she knew she HAD to get it- when it was brought into Sweet Thrills, Bessie teasingly had said, “You spoil him too much!” to which Anna went, “Yes, I do. I’m TRYING to be his favorite mum, after all!”) and sprinkles some water into the pot. After patting Herman’s round hedge of leaves (“That’s his afro. Our son has an afro.” -Bessie), she turned her attention back to Bessie. At that point, her singing was all she could hear.

“In love again, ba-abe”

After that, the beat dropped and Bessie did the most adorable thing: She jumped. She jumped with the beat and began dancing in her spot as she sung.

“This is how to be a heartbreaker

Boys they like a little danger”

Bessie was bouncing on her heels and swaying back and forth and bobbing her head- and Anna was nearly on her knees because this girl was absolutely perfect. She was completely smitten with this sweet shop, forensics major, and she wondered what she had done to make God so proud, because Bessie was perfect- she was a blessing.

“We'll get him falling for a stranger

A player, singing I lo-lo-love y- AAHHH!!!!”

While twisting around on her heels, Bessie had finally noticed that Anna was inside with her, watching her.

She must have leapt ten feet off of the ground, and when she landed, she landed right into the box of candies she was putting on the shelves, causing her to slip and fly backwards. Her head thumped horribly against the shelf behind her before she crumpled into a shivering ball, keening in pain.

“Bessie!!” Anna cried, racing to her side. She kneels down and reaches for the curled up girl below her, eyes wide with fear. “Oh my god, oh my god, Bessie! I’m so sorry! Are you okay? Bessie!”

“Ow...” Bessie moaned against the wooden floor. She pried her eyes open, panting for a moment to catch her breath after the fright that overcame her. She reached back to rub her head and pushed herself up with her free arm. “A-Anna?”

“Yeah, darling, it’s me. It’s just me.” Anna said, her hands hovering, ready to catch Bessie if she keeled over. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I just- I heard you singing and I couldn’t get myself to interrupt you because- God, what am I doing? I shouldn’t be gushing right now. Are you okay? Should I call 999?”

“You heard me singing?” Bessie blushed shyly, not answering the question asked of her.

“Well- yeah.” Anna nodded. “But are you okay? Are you bleeding?”

“No,” Bessie shook her head, wincing slightly. “It hurts, that’s all.”

“I’m so sorry,” Anna said. She reached out and gently cupped Bessie’s cheek, which she leans into like a kitten seeking affection, using the other to reach around her head and carefully feel for a gash. When Bessie whines softly, she knows she’s found the injured spot- there’s definitely a bump forming, but no blood and no open wound. She sighed in relief. “Can you stand?”

Bessie nodded and stood up. She stumbled a little, but Anna quickly catches her, and that ends with Bessie pressed close to her chest. She looks up at the taller woman with big eyes, cheeks dusted with red.

“Hey.”

“I watered Herman.”

“He missed you.”

“Did you?”

“Of course.”

Anna smiled widely.

“I’m glad.”

Bessie pulled away and turned back to the box of candies she had been working on. She clearly seems conflicted- she wanted to spend time with Anna, but had to finish work.

“I’ll help you.” Anna said, sensing her dilemma.

With that, they began tag-teaming the rest of the work Bessie was supposed to do. As they did so, Bessie asks, “If you don’t mind me asking...why come to a sweet shop so often? You could be at clubs or frat parties or a sorority...but you don’t.”

She paused.

“Is..is it because of me?” She whispered.

Anna looked up from the Milkyways she was putting into their specific bucket and met Bessie’s deep blue, gorgeous eyes.

“Yeah.” She smiled. “Well,” She went on, “And Herman.”

Bessie giggled, and they both looked over at their banzai son. Then, their heads craned up when a familiar, iconic piano tune began to play from the speakers overhead. Anna smirked widely and stood up, extending a hand to Bessie.

“Care to dance?”

“Heart beats fast

Colors and promises”

“I would love to.”

“How to be brave?

How can I love when I'm afraid to fall?”

Bessie takes Anna’s hand and was pulled to her feet. The two of them got into the proper position and began to slowly dance.

“But watching you stand alone

All of my doubt suddenly goes away somehow”

Bessie started to sing along to the song, blessing Anna’s ears once more. She giggled lightly in between the lyrics when Anna twirls her.

“One step closer...”

They picked up the pace a little, swaying with more energy, but kept their synced movements careful and smooth.

“I have died every day waiting for you

Darling, don't be afraid...”

Anna was not afraid.

Dancing in a sweet shop, under the rainbow fairy lights strung about the building, with the most beautiful girl to ever exist, Anna could not be any happier.

She now knew for a fact that Bessie did come here often.

#candy shop au #this is a lot longer than I meant for it to be #I just got so wrapped up in this au!!#and the gays!!#and their meet-cute!!#im in love with this au #six the musical fanfiction #six the musical #six the musical fanfic #anna of cleves #anne boleyn #bessie on the bass #banna #bessie x cleves #tw: vomit #tw: emetophobia #tw: throw up

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littlekatleaf · 5 years ago

Text

Buried in a burning flame is love and its decisive pain (part 5)

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four

Junkrat tossed on the cot, trying to find relief; sleep a haze over his mind...

gotta escape this prison of skin and bone and virus and float into the black sky, swirl with the snow, spin with the stars but can’t escape - somethin’ he needs to do? No, somethin’ he wants… wants more’n he wants revenge on the Queen… more’n he wants gold… more’n he wants what he gave his limbs for… Want, take, have. Always been the way of it. But can’t take this. Can’t steal it. Can’t have it. Gotta be given… and who would give to him? Even in this weird sleep the edge of knowledge makes his stomach twist…

Fingers clenched in the sheets and the voice...

who would give to you, Jamison? No one. Scrawny little rat. Plague rat. Lab rat. Junkrat. Laughter, cold and hard, stabbing into the center of his head, throbbing behind his eyes. Did taking that name make you feel stronger? Make you believe you could leave me behind? You know I am always with you. No matter where you go. Just right here. Closer than close. tapping on his forehead... Gotta get away, gotta escape… can’t… Try to twist away, but fingernails grip him, begin tearing the skin from his right arm and his throat burns with the echo of a howl released long ago…

His body jerked and sleep slid over him again…

fragments of ideas circle his thoughts like portents. ‘Soul is bent, feels the weight of truth… falling through, left behind, no choice but to run to the mountains… out of time, must decide... to fall or run... into the eye of the storm … no sign or omen… from the day you’re born… you’ll always hit the ground running…’

He runs. Over the snow between the trees, breath rasping in his lungs, the rattle pop of gunshots echoing in the distance. Where’s Hana? Lucio? Roadhog? Can’t see them. Ahead? Behind? He opens his mouth to shout, but his voice won’t work. He runs faster. Between the trees Hana, facing down a Bastion unit, her mech gone, her blaster jammed. He runs faster. Where are his grenades? Bombs? He has nothing. Runs faster but the Bastion fires and Hana falls and he runs faster but he slips and

he is falling. Falling and snow swirling around him and he falls through the snow, through the sky… where is the ground? Shivers so hard his bones crack. Suddenly the sharp cold of Roadhog’s hook around his middle, pulling him in, pulling him close against Roadie’s body and the snow melts with the heat of his skin. At first the warmth is a comfort, bringing feeling back into his body where he’d gone numb. Roadie cups his cheek with one hand and he closes his eyes, yes… leans into the comfort, the safety… and Roadhog’s arms go around him, hold him tight… too tight… too hot, burning, like he is too close to the blast that destroyed the Omnium, flesh melting from his bones. “You think I want someone like you? Weak? Pathetic?” Rumble of laughter. Flames lick his skin, his lungs, and Roadhog watches him burn, fire reflecting in his blank masked eyes and

Junkrat gasped awake, eyes burning, skin burning with fever. Bright ghost-pain in his arm, his leg. Heart pounded against the cage of his ribs. He scrubbed a hand over his face, then over his chest, checking the skin, relieved to find it unburned. Dreaming, he told himself. Were dreaming. Focus - be here, now - not there, then. Scratchy sheets. Cot spring poking his back. Roadhog snoring.

He sat up slowly, staring through the dark, could just make out the hill of Roadhog’s stomach, rising and falling slowly as he slept. Roadhog wouldn’t really leave him to burn, right? Was just a dream, right? You know how to convince him to keep you, at least for the moment. You know what you can do for him… whispered suggestion and restlessness suffused Junkrat’s body, a need like an itch just out of reach. Hunger, almost but not quite desire. Ugly edge of desperation. Felt like he was burning from the inside out. Slipped off the cot and crossed the room. Roadhog didn’t move, even as Junkrat sat on the edge of the bed.

Breathed in slowly, tickle rising in response. Not quite enough, though. Again. Slow, careful breath, teasing. Almost. Again. Breathe, slow, and then… yes… “Hih...it’sch! T’chh!” Pinched them off, keep it under control. Roadhog stirred, turned masked face toward him, lenses reflecting moonlight instead of flames.

“....”

“Sorry, got a tickle.” Tried for his usual cockiness, but not sure he pulled it off. Fortunately another sneeze interrupted him. “Ah-t’chh! T’chh! H’gnxt!” He sighed, sniffed, slid his hand under the sheet, teasing along the waistband of Roadhog’s boxers.

Suddenly Roadhog’s hand grabbed his wrist. “What are you doing, Rat?”

“Just… just thought you’d like…” Dammit, the sneezes were still coming. “Huh-Issh! Ah’Risshh!”

“Don’t.” Roadhog bit the word off.

“But…”

“No. Go to bed, Rat.” Roadhog released his hand and rolled over, away from him.

Shit. Junkrat swallowed. Lips dry, mouth dry. Needed a drink. Made his slightly unsteady way to the kitchen. Ground felt not quite solid underfoot and his head ached. How’d he fuck this one up? Wanted tea, but was too much effort, settled for water instead. He finished a whole glass before his eyes were caught by a soft glow lighting the living room.

Someone had dragged in a pine tree and decorated it for Christmas. Strings of white fairy lights and glass baubles in rainbow hues. ‘Stead of going back to the bedroom to stare at the walls and try to figure how he’d pissed Roadie off, he curled up on the couch. The tree made the room feel warm, cozy. Tried to remember other Christmases. Had there ever been a tree? Presents? Not in the years by himself. Never with Roadie, neither - Chrissie always just another day.

“Ahrisssh! Issshuh!” The sneezes burst from him unexpectedly - just managed to catch ‘em in the crook of his arm, his cheeks heating at the noise. Fuck - gonna wake up the entire place.

As if the thought summoned him, Lucio appeared in the doorway. “Saúde, Junkrat.”

“Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to wake ya.”

“Nah, you didn’t. Couldn’t sleep.” Lucio hesitated. “I was gonna make myself some cocoa. Want some?”

“Please.”

Must’ve dozed off, because felt like only a second passed before the couch dipped as Lucio and Hana sat on either side of him. Lucio handed him a mug. Even through the congestion he caught the sweet scent of chocolate. “Not gonna want to be so close,” he warned.

Hana shrugged off his concern. “No worries, mate,” she copied his accent to horrible effect.

“‘S my line,” he said, coughing on a laugh.

“No offense, but you sound horrible.” Least she was matter of fact about it. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Is Roadhog snoring? Hana could wake the dead when she gets going. And she talks in her sleep. You wouldn’t believe the stuff she says…”

“Hey!” She reached behind Junkrat to cuff Lucio on the back of the head. “You swore you wouldn’t tell.”

Lucio shrugged, grinning.

“Nah. I mean, yeah he is - like a freight train. But it don’t bother me none. I’m used to it.” The steam curled up from the mug, loosening congestion and making his nose tickle. He rubbed it against the back of his hand. Took a sip of the chocolate and coughed on it. “Hooly dooly, what’s in there, turpentine?”

“Found some Peppermint Schnapps. I figured it would help all of us get some sleep.” Lucio took a tentative drink and made a face. “Might be a little old.”

“So why are you awake,” Hana pressed. “Lucio’s worried about you. ”

“Hana!”

“Turn about’s fair play.” She laughed. “Not like it’s something to be embarrassed about, anyway.” “For guys it is,” Lucio mumbled.

“Weird dreams,” Junkrat said, hoping it would be enough to explain without encouraging more questions. He took a long drink. Unfortunately the alcohol spiked straight to his nose and he knew he was going to sneeze again… not exactly reassuring. Should never got started in the first place. And he was going to spill his drink. Fuck. “Could you takethisplease,” had to rush it through, luckily Lucio seemed to know what was going on because he took the mug just as the first sneeze sent Junkrat lurching forward. “AhRissshah! Issh! HaRiiissh-uh!”

“Done?” Hana patted his back gently.

Shook his head, face still buried in his elbow. “Huh-iisssh! Issshh! AhRiish!”

“Bless. Now?”

Shook his head again, words beyond his ability. Tried to pinch it back. “H’gnxt! … H’gnxt!” Just popped his ears and he finally gave up. “Hih-Riiisshhh!” Waited a minute to catch his breath and decide whether he’d sneezed his brains out or just felt like it. “Done,” he finally managed to mumble.

“Color me impressed,” Hana said and bonked him in the head with a tissue box.

He grabbed a handful without lifting his face from his elbow. Didn’t think it was gonna be a pretty sight. “Ugh, sorry. Plague rat is right.” He shivered.

“Dude, it’s not a big deal. Everyone gets sick sometimes.” Lucio gave him back his cocoa then tugged a throw blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around him.

“Yeah, like on our first date,” Hana said, leaning against Junkrat’s shoulder. Lucio leaned in on the other side and slowly his shaking stopped.

“Oh my God, don’t tell that story,” Lucio groaned.

“He didn’t want to cancel, even though he wasn’t feeling well…”

“Because I’d been trying to get you to agree to go out with me for weeks!”

“So we get to the bar, and Lena and Emily are there…” “And Hana suggests a double date.”

“I didn’t suggest you agree to the drinking contest.”

“I had to impress you, didn’t I?”

“I tried to warn you...”

“But she didn’t tell me Lena can drink Rein under the table.”

Junkrat laughed. The warmth of the blanket and the comfort of Lucio and Hana on either side of him grounded him and the tension in his shoulders began to loosen.

“So three shots in, Lucio passes out - falls right off his barstool - and I end up taking care of him for the rest of the night.”

“And she is going to tell this story until the end of my days…” Lucio gusted a sigh.

“What about you and Roadhog? First date story?”

Junkrat took a drink, stalling to give his brain a minute to come up with how the hell to answer her question.

“Give him a break, Hana.” Then he glanced at Junkrat out of the corner of his eyes. “Look at him. You think they go on dates?”

“Ha! Ok, fair. How’d you meet, then?”

It was a much easier story to tell - the attempted attack by the Queen’s goons, his own quick thinking offer to Roadhog, who accepted for reasons of his own and the beatdown they provided the goons instead. Might have slid over the bit about the treasure the Queen wanted, and added a couple of extra goons, but didn’t need to exaggerate Roadhog’s prowess. He’d taken them down and barely even broken a sweat. “Was a beautiful thing,” he finished, smiling at the memory.

“I think we have slightly different ideas of beauty.” Hana said, making a face.

“No accounting for taste,” Junkrat shrugged and yawned. The alcohol tasted like ass, but also made him sleepy. “Didn’t know what I was getting into that day. Thought I was just saving my ass… but…” he yawned again.

“But?”

“But think I put myself in more danger than the Queen’s drongo’s would’ve been.”

Hana frowned. “What do you mean?”

Junkrat rubbed his eyes. He was tired down to his bones and it all combined to loosen his tongue. “You asked if we’re just… business partners. An’... to tell ya the truth, I dunno what the hell we are.” He shifted, trying to ease the ache in his leg. “Wasn’t supposed to be anything other than a job. 50/50 - I plan, he’s my bodyguard. Easy, right? But something got fucked up somewhere and I think I…” He rubbed his hands over his face. Couldn’t say it. Not even to them. “Fucked it up.”

Hana put an arm around him. “He’s still here.”

“For the money.”

“Are you sure,” Lucio asked.

“Yes.”

#snezfic #oversnez #constitutionally incapable of writing shortfic #rat what is you doin #lyrics quoted from Calexico

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thehomierobbstark · 5 years ago

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Bruh I can imagine Erik saying “Like you mean it” in that tinder voice, and staring at you with his pretty brown eyes😭😭

Shame [Prelude] // Kissing Strangers [Part I] // Communication [Part II]

[A/N: So I know when you sent this in you were probably responding to my story Kissing Strangers, but I wanted to do something else with this since so many people seemed to enjoy that story. (Uh huh, bet you thought I didn’t see this ask huh 😂). Anywho, this is part 1 of 2, so stay tuned! If yall wanna incorporate this into the K.S. Universe go for it! But there’s still a lot of development to go before this story happens. I listened to Sabrina Claudio’s Creation (i know sis….) on repeat while writing this. Enjoy! And as always, thanks for asking anon!! ]

Warnings: At the bottom 👇🏿👇🏿👇🏿.

This is for all my lil cute ass black gorditas out there rockin back fat, belly rolls and thick ass thighs that touch!! x Reader is always gon be black, chubby, and sassy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shivers run down your back as he traces along your spine with a finger, sliding delicately over the bralette you wore and down to the small of your back. He lets the rest of his fingers peek out to crawl around your skin, nails scratching lightly as he feels around the plushy flesh resting there.

Out of habit, you shrink away from his curious exploration, self conscious about the unsightly back rolls, mentally cringing at what he must’ve thought.

“Let me touch you,” he whispers against your lips, his other hand pulling you back to him, large palm gripping your thick waist with security.

Your heart flutters at the gesture, a comforting warmth emanating out from your chest, and down below. As you look down at him with a lip tucked between your teeth, he watches you with half lidded eyes, leaning forward to tug it free and suck the juicy fold into his mouth.

Sighing contentedly, you bring your hands up to either side of his face, closing your eyes and melting into the kiss, returning it with equal fervor. Your tongues dance slowly with one another as you explore each others mouths, nipping and sucking softly until both your lips are red and swollen with desire.

Pulling back with a groan, he surveys your outfit, not for the first time that night. Sucking in a sharp breath, he clicks his tongue with irritation, rolling it around in his mouth.

“Now you knew damn well you was wrong when you walked out the house like this.” His eyebrow twitches as he speaks through clenched teeth, the frustration he’d felt the entire evening burning like acid on his tongue. You feel the deep timbre of his voice vibrate through your body, and his eyes flicker to yours, narrowed and concentrated. “Didn’t you?”

Inhaling a thick breath of air, you bite your lip to conceal your smirk, nodding innocently as you feel the sexual tension grow between the two of you, along with something else.

“Words.”

He doesn’t break eye contact, waiting patiently for your verbal response.

Straightening your posture, you push your hands against his lower abdomen, feeling the solid muscles there constrict, giving yourself a layer of protection in case he decided to pounce. “Yes.”

He sniffs, nodding his head while his eyes trail down to your spread thighs on either side of his hips, feeling his gaze on your center.

“Yet, you decided to do it anyway. Why?”

You swallow thickly, resisting the urge to clench your thighs together at his aggressive interrogation.

“Because it’s cute.” You raise a brow, holding your head high with conviction as if the answer was obvious.

Eyeing you dangerously, he reaches forward, wrapping his hand around your throat and squeezing firmly until he feels your pulse race anxiously against his palm. A weak whine manages to slip past your lips, but you cut it short, seeing the threatening look behind his eyes.

“Why?” He asks you again, eyebrows raised expectantly for the correct answer this time.

Licking your lips, you open your mouth, and he gives your throat a warning squeeze, daring you to lie to him again before loosening his grip.

“Because I knew it would get to you.” Your words are breathy, heart skipping a beat at your foolish confession.

He leans forward, a smile curling its way onto his lips as he drops the hand around your neck to trace the lines of your collar bone, following it with his eyes.

He places a kiss to your shoulder.

“Do you like teasing me, Miss Y/L/N?”

He places another kiss right above it, your skin growing increasingly sensitive with each touch.

With your words caught in your throat, you move to shake your head, but a sharp smack to your ass makes you gasp, stopping you in your tracks.

You glance down to find those same insidious eyes watching you again, eager for another mistake as he continues lacing kisses up the side of your neck.

Clearing your throat, you find your voice again, speaking with a shaky breath. “No.”

“Hm?” You can feel his soft breath tickling your skin, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention from the close proximity. He was torturing you now.

Closing your eyes, you try again, this time with more certainty.

“No.”

With his lips pressed to the shell of your ear, he whispers into it, his icy tone sending a chill down your back.

“Wrong answer.”

The air feels as though it thins around you, your breaths becoming shallow as you wait with trepidation for whatever was about to come.

You chance a peek at him, eyes wide and silently pleading for him to have mercy on you, to give you one more chance to get it right.

Bringing his face up to yours, he stops a hair’s breadth away from you, your nose tickling from the closeness, and you feel your stomach sink as you watch his sweet brown eyes turn cold.

You feel a popped tug at your pants and the zipper on your jeans being pulled down as the cool air in the car begins to touch your lower half.

“Take these off.”

Grabbing your bottom with a handful of meatiness in each hand, he lifts you up, placing you off to the side onto the seat next to him. Scooting himself towards the door, he rests back cooly with one leg bent at the knee on the seat, the other on the floor. His left arm lays behind the headrest, the other in his lap, fingers twitching around the aching mass between his legs.

With the small distance between you, you feel as though you’re center stage, and the intrigued look on his face as his eyes rake over you let you know that he’s ready for the show.

You take in a deep breath, chest filling with nervous butterflies that flutter away as you exhale through your nostrils. Hooking both thumbs into the rim of your pants at your waist, you slowly push them down off your tummy, stopping to instinctively pull your underwear back up over the soft pudge.

“Don’t.” His deep voice stalls you in your movements, and you release your tug on your panties, the thin material snapping back against your skin.

Looking into your eyes, with a small nod he silently commands you to keep going, and you continue pushing the material down, pausing to lift yourself as you work it up and over your hips. As more of your chocolate brown skin is revealed, he licks his lips, swallowing down the collection of saliva that pooled in his mouth at the sight of you.

You keep your legs together as you finish shoving your jeans down the rest of the way, bending your knees and tucking each of your feet back as they’re freed to cover the view of your crotch.

Balling up the dark denim, you toss it over into the trunk of the car, straightening your legs out on the seat to their full length, your chubby socked feet stopping just before his crotch.

Running his thumb up the side of your sole, he takes one foot in his hand, slowly peeling the thin silk from around your ankle, revealing your cute black pedicured toes as he pulls it off. He does the same with the other foot, folding the socks into one another before tossing them over his shoulder to join your jeans in the back.

Rolling his thumbs into the sole of your right foot, he massages the soft skin, the tickling feeling making you arch and squirm in your spot. You can feel the wetness in between your legs grow with each firm knead, and when he presses the nail of his thumb into the base of your heel and draw up, your body shudders at the sensation, closing your eyes to keep him from seeing them roll into the back of your head.

Chuckling at your reaction, he brings your foot up to his mouth to softly kiss the pad of your big toe, working his way down the line of appendages as he holds them against his lips. His tongue snakes out to suck on your pinky toe, but you snatch your foot back before he can make contact, a devilish snicker filtering out from him as a full blown grin spreads his lips, touching the corners of his eyes.

You pull both your legs back and wrap your arms around your knees protectively, too distracted by the irritatingly beautiful smile painted on his face to roll your eyes at him like you wanted to.

“Where you think you going? Get back over here,”

He chews his lip as he glances down at your shielded legs, beckoning you back over to him with a hooked index finger.

When you refuse to move, his smile fades, face morphing back into the dark demonic look that you were becoming accustomed to seeing.

He stares you down with a testing look, but you don’t budge an inch. If he wanted you, he was gonna have to come get you.

Slowly leaning forward into a menacing crouch, he balances the weight of his upper body on the palms of his hands, beginning a steady crawl towards you. The muscles in his back undulate with each stride, the rolling of his shoulders reminding you of that of a jaguar on the prowl.

You reach behind you to drag yourself away from his sauntering presence, but your hand hits the door, and your stomach sinks at the realization that there’s no where else for you to go.

As he reaches your legs, he wraps one large palm around your calf, gripping it and tugging you towards him forcefully, causing a frightened yelp to escape your lips.

Your back falls flat against the seat, and you see his large frame above you, peering down at you like you’re his helpless prey.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Warnings: Pre smut, Corniness, Insane Cheesiness I’m sure

#erik killmonger #bp #erik killmonger x reader #erik killmonger x black!reader #black panther #black panther fanfiction #black panther fanfics #black panther fandom #TheHomieFics

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maladaptive-ninja-returns · 5 years ago

Text

Without Question (Epilogue)

Steve Rogers x fem!Reader

Content: fluffy conclusion and maybe...mayyyyybe a future fic idea

Warnings: …none? Um...except for that one lady in there.

Word Count: Hot water does not quench my thirst no matter how good it might be for my body...which in itself is such a disaster of a thing.

MASTERLIST & Taglist in bio, my love

The life of a parasite is not that complex of an affair. It is born to live inside a host, gather its nutrients from the said host- more than often at the host's expense- live till it can breed more or find a better host. Its entire life is based on the expense of another creature; its survival in the flesh of someone who can contain it. Therefore, it is no wonder she does not like it when someone calls her a parasite. For she is not one. Her kind lives in codependency, finding a host it is compatible with and helping it flourish in return for nourishment.

Her species was known to have always gone for the living, looking for hosts they could control, be the dominant party of the two sitting in the conference room inside the mind of the body they inhabited, the foreboding controllers that they were. However, inhabiting a dead host- or someone near to it- was never talked about for carcasses were beneath them and their Titan-like ego.

But she isn't like them. She wants to be different. To finally have the freedom she has craved for her entire existence; she wants to live it. And so, she has decided to throw all the laws of the dead empire outside the window and try her theory of inhabiting a body nearly at its deathbed.

The woman- strolled into the emergency room with fatal blows to her body in some accident- is covered in blood and bruises when the doctors try to rush into the process of saving her, measuring her heart rate, blood pressure and respiration rate. It is pure chaos for her to watch it all from the ceiling. Humans. Such soft creatures. She can sense that woman's vitals weakening with every passing moment, something the machines tell the medical professionals by a few seconds' delay. No amount of effort is going to repair that internal bleeding and shock accelerating that human's chances of death slithering right by the corner. And just at that second, she knows that flesh is no longer the resident to the soul it has been harbouring since the beginning of its time, she jumps discreetly into the body when the doctors are focusing at the screen that shows the patient is flatlining. One shock to through the defibrillator is enough for her to let the chemicals be catalysed to become one with neurons; her presence gradually gelling with the body to become one with it. And before any other human in the room can debate on it being a medical miracle, a sign of higher power or simply the inadequacy of the machines, she opens her eyes in her new form, seeing the world through an independent pair of windows for the first time.

Free.

"You know, when we both silently agreed on staying together, I wasn't really expecting you to spoil my life like this."

Steve's chuckle reverberates through the kitchen and dining hall. His honey-laced laugh reaches you in the living room to make you smile as you gather the whiteboard, a few markers, the portable speaker, and a couple of other knick-knacks for the small gathering you are about to have.

"If making breakfast every day is spoiling you then I am not even halfway to showing you how much more I can spoil your life, doll," he announces over the sound of something sizzling over the stove.

You bite your lips to stop the overflow of these gushing emotions all inside you. "Oh, let's not forget giving Stace the freedom to do whatever she wants, okay?" You state, getting up and moving towards the hall, "And you making that entire front yard-"

"That's our back yard."

Our back yard.

...Fuck. Why is he like this?

"Making our entire back yard into this freaking perfect garden with all those fancy fairy lights and a freaking gazebo!"

"You liked it," he stresses. You peak in from the entrance of the kitchen, watching him carefully place the omelettes in two plates along with the toasts- yours extra crispy with thinly spread butter on them- before pouring orange juice in two glasses.

"That doesn't matter," you retort, watching him being caught off guard, your heart instantly melting when his eyes light up on seeing you stand there. "I'm not gonna maintain that luxurious green patch when the time comes."

He stands facing you, his hands on his hips and oh heavens! that customised blue apron with chibi Captain America blessing its front gives you all the right feels in your stomach. "No problem," he affirms, picking the plates and moving them to the tiny breakfast table by the French window before coming back for the juice, "I'll take care of it. I'm pretty sure all of these are positive spoil-"

"Oh I'm not done yet," you interject, sauntering towards a slightly confused and faintly excited Steve, "you have me utterly spoiled-" you move your hands around his waist, earning an arched brow from him- "with all-" your hands go beyond his back, moving lower till they land over his butt cheeks- "of that-" and give them a tight squeeze, forcing a delightful hum out of Steve as you push him closer to you- "sex!"

"Hmm," Steve growls, planting his one hand on your waist under your t-shirt, while the other goes up to tease your lower lip with his thumb. "If you don't like being spoiled," he whispers, bringing his lips closer to you but never close enough for you to get a taste of him, "we can always stop."

"Or," you begin to propose through a moan by letting your hands run along the hem of his track pants, creating a wave of disturbance wherever your fingers touch him before stopping at the trail of hair going down, "we could make it a healthy habit so it doesn't seem like I'm being spoiled."

Your fingers run down that soft golden trail, stirring something inside the Captain, his light eyes feeling a dark edge of mischief being added to them. His finger traces a path down from your lips to your neck, going further down your chest. "Everyone'll arrive in an hour," Steve sighs, giving a light shrug.

"Oh," you turn to look at the clock and realise he's not wrong, letting go of the waistband of his track pants, "then we should-"

Your sentence ends up a light shriek from Steve lifting you by your ass, making your reflexes wrap your legs around him. "That means," he grunts, balancing you effortlessly in those buff arms while his lust-filled eyes have yours locked in place, his voice a shade huskier as he starts moving to the bedroom, "I have a lot of time to make you question all that I do for you. And to you. And more."

Oooh yes!

"How do I use this thing?"

Wasn't working with a human vessel not enough? Did they really have to invent these cheap electronic devices?

She looks down at the device that seems to keep buzzing with different messages for some reason as she tries to find her way through the street.

Getting out of the hospital had been easy (and so was getting a fresh set of clothes). Give the docs and nurses another pile of flesh and bones to worry about and they run like scared animals to help their flock. Now, she is out exploring, trying to work with this new suit, find out the perks and non-perks, questioning her idea of travelling solo when having another conscience to talk to and gnaw at would have been easier. Now it's just her with her voice speaking from some uncharted void walking down into a farmer's market, already having discovered how much of gross unwanted attention this sex of the human species is given on the street.

There is a huge variety of delectables lines up that the humans seemingly prefer. Different shapes, colours and sizes. Some smell sweet, some sour, and some smell like they would sting your tongue before leaving a sweetness behind. Strange edibles. She watches another human- a man as far as the scent of the hormones off him goes- politely asking for some fresh oranges while telling the man behind the counter the ones he is trying to pack do not smell fresh. The sweet nectar of curiosity seems to send a reaction to her brain, making her step towards the box of citrus fruits displayed for the customers. Quickly picking half a dozen from down the different boxes, she brings them forward to the man who is nearly losing his patience. "These are fresh."

The man turns to see her. And she gets a good look at him for the first time. Hypnotising blue eyes look at her in a flurry of confusion and gratuitous delight, the beard hiding pink lips and flushed cheeks.

After a short considerable second, he takes the oranges from her. "Thank you," he mentions without blinking, taking a little time to turn back to make the payment. And in that turn is a microscopic moment, he watches, from the corner of his eye, a stranger try to touch her ass for barely a second.

She, of course, feels it too well. The man turns to get hold of that pervert and kick some respect into him only to find her punching the daylights out of him.

And he just stands there, full body in pause, mind in awe of the woman who has knocked that excuse of a man out in one blow, looking at her once again- this time from his heart. She looks back at him too; though with visible shades of uncertainty before looking down at the guy.

"Was I not supposed to do that?" She asks the man who by now has his mouth agape, still looking at her.

He blinks. "Huh?" Looks down at the man and raises his brows and chuckles. "What? No. I mean yes. You are absolutely supposed to do that."

"Oh-" she nods, and he watches her beam and be proud of herself, "okay."

"Um," he tries to catch her attention. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

She looks down at the hand she used, feeling nothing more than minute tickles. "Yeah, I think I'm good." She turns her gaze back to him with a smile.

He melts inside.

"Do you know where is this place?" She asks him, taking out a card she found in her- the dead woman's- pocket.

"This," he hums, reading the card, "was a few blocks down the road the last I saw it."

"Oh," she scrunches her nose and feels a tired groan come out of her, "how far?"

"I can drop you there if you want," he blurts out, "I'm going that way myself."

She looks at him again. Watching him run his hands through his long lush hair, wondering if she'd seen him somewhere before shaking that thought off, knowing full well that she would remember a pretty face like this. "Yes, I'd like that."

"Great," he chirps. "Oh, I'm James," he addresses, drawing forward his hand, "my friends call me Bucky."

"Bucky," she tastes the name on her tongue and feels all the black mush inside her do a little dance for some unknown reason.

"And you are?"

She licks her lips and feels them stretch involuntary, drawing her own hand forward to meet his, saying her name to bring herself- her true self- into existence, letting the air carry her name for whatever future it is to bring for her.

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